


On The Coldfront

by TeratoMarty, wonderwhatthisbuttondoes



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Chess Metaphors, Friends to Lovers, Guro, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Medic has soooo many issues, Medical Kink, Slow Burn, Team Dynamics, also actual chess, intelligent Heavy, medical fetish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 18:31:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 39,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16918095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeratoMarty/pseuds/TeratoMarty, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderwhatthisbuttondoes/pseuds/wonderwhatthisbuttondoes
Summary: The Medic was the first to greet the new arrival at the base, but it was not a warm welcome for this chilly place: “Herr Heavy, welcome to Coldfront. Once you have deposited your rucksack in your bunk, kindly come to ze infirmary for your intake exam."[Collab between me (then writing as Otherhazards) and Teratomarty back in 2011.]





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> Collab between me (then writing as Otherhazards) and Teratomarty back in 2011.  
> I wrote Heavy, he wrote Medic, and the rest is history...
> 
> First posted on TF2 chan here: http://www.tf2chan.net/afanfic/res/399.html

The Medic was the first to greet the new arrival at the base, but it was not a warm welcome for this chilly place: “Herr Heavy, welcome to Coldfront. Once you have deposited your rucksack in your bunk, kindly come to ze infirmary for your intake exam."   
  
Heavy found his new room in the Coldfront base without trouble, and dumped his rucksack on the bunk without ceremony. It was empty, and institutional, like any of these rooms when you first move in... Heavy looked around ambivalently, then remembered something, dug a fresh blue shirt out of his pack, and changed out of his current one. He tossed the dirty shirt behind the door to deal with later, and headed down towards the infirmary. Wall-maps are handy things, and since the locations are by class symbol, language doesn't count.   
  
In the infirmary, the Medic found himself straightening his syringes and rearranging his pill bottles. He knew that the Heavy would be back soon, and found himself eager to make a good impression. Ridiculous. He forced himself to sit down calmly and review his notes on the team.   
  
Moving through the unfamiliar corridors, Heavy could hear the hollow rush of the heating vents, just keeping up with the cool breath that seeped off the concrete walls. It was familiar, and not, like the team he would soon meet. He knew what they would be, but not yet who would fill each role… except for one, and he'd barely met the man. Another Heavy might have taken this more seriously, but he knew better. Medics were useful, but when one ducked off for his own reasons, it wasn't the end of the world. They were both adults, after all... Letting that thought go, Heavy stopped in front of the infirmary door, then opened it.   
  
The Medic had heard the footsteps in the hall outside, and he forced himself to remain calmly looking at his paperwork for another moment. He was not going to get excited about this. This was an intake exam. He couldn't be sure the previous base's Medic had been thorough. Turning around with a measured pace, he flashed a brief rictus of a smile at the Heavy. "Good of you to come so promptly. Please, step behind ze screen and take off your shirt."   
  
Stiff. Heavy's first impression of this medic seemed to have been the correct one. Still, the instruments lying around- on display?- gleamed cold and clean in the harsh overhead lights, so different from the infirmaries and field-clinics Heavy had seen along the southwestern border of the USSR. Once he'd brought a wounded man to in northern Uzbekistan, there had been blood caked on the grip and plunger of one of the needles, and the sink... No. Heavy preferred this, for all the new medic's starchy demeanour. "Da," he agreed, nodding once. Why the screen though? They were both men, and if the medic didn't want to look for some reason, how was he going to do the examination in the first place? Strange, strange. Still... Heavy ducked behind the screen, and shrugged out of his thick flak fest, leaving it half-folded on the chair. He took off his shirt, and waited.   
  
The Medic stood up, hanging his stethoscope around his neck and picking up a clipboard. "Herr, please come sit on ze exam table." He watched the man behind the screen, concealed by the thin fabric, revealed by the harsh light behind the screen with him. The Heavy was massive, like all men of his class, with the dense muscles needed to lift the minigun. The Medic made a note to check for signs of inguinal hernia.   
  
After the slightly unusual ceremony of undressing behind the screen, Heavy felt strangely on display coming out from behind it. Determined not to let any of this show, he walked over to the exam table, and glanced down at the Medic for a moment- not so very far down, since this Medic seemed to habitually stand up straight- before taking a seat.   
  
"Breathe normally," the Medic said, heedless of how difficult it is to do anything normally once your conscious attention has been called to that action. He put the stethoscope earpieces in place and pressed the cold disc of the bell over a neatly-executed tattoo on the Heavy's left pectoral. The breath moved freely, with no rattling or wheezing. He moved the scope to the right lung, and found it similarly clear. "Now hold ze breath." The German pressed the stethoscope back to the tattoo- it looked somewhat like the Polish coat of arms- and listened to the slow booming of the Heavy's heart. "Perfect," he sighed, listening to the valves snap shut and the blood rush through.   
  
The small, cold circle of the stethoscope's end made Heavy catch his breath momentarily, but the orders that followed were clear and professional. He relaxed, falling into the familiar pattern. Perfect. That- ...Heavy paused again, not moving, but considering what he'd just heard. No, he decided, he'd imagined the sigh. It had been a long flight out, and he was tired. Still... this Medic really seemed to enjoy his work. Heavy had seen the Engineer at his last base look at machines like this.   
  
Medic walked around the table and pressed the now-warm stethoscope the lower portion of the ribs on the right side. "Breathe in deeply," he ordered, listening to the clear lower lobes of the lung. "Und again," he said, switching to the left. "Good, good." He donned his otolaryngologist's mirror, and peered into the Heavy's ear. At least, he tried. Sitting on the table, the big man's ears were well out of his reach. "Herr, bend down." He caught himself looking at the Heavy's shoulders, and looked away to the anatomy chart on the wall. Just muscle groups, that was all.   
  
Feeling somewhat like a horse and amused by the image, Heavy bent forwards, resting his forearms on his knees. The Medic seemed distracted, like water with an unquiet surface. He'd done nothing objectionable yet, though...   
  
The Medic peered into the Heavy's ear, and found no obstruction or inflammation. He walked around to observe the other ear, and found it likewise immaculate. He stood in front of the big man and said, "Open ze mouth."   
  
Doctors, Heavy had no problem with. Dentists... well, he dealt with them. And this was a doctor, he reminded himself, firmly. He opened his mouth the let the Medic continue his exam, and watched the man's face beneath the slight glare of the reflective disk instead. Sharp. Precise was a better word, because it wasn't the doctor's features that looked angular, it was the way he held them. It was a symmetrical face. An academic's face, except for that slightly-too-heavy jaw that didn't look like it would break easily. Professional detachment, and lips slightly parted in concentration. Heavy wanted to close his mouth, but he didn't. He took to following a glinting point of light on the doctor's wire-rimmed glasses instead.   
  
The Medic smiled happily as he angled the reflection from his otolaryingologist's mirror into the Heavy's mouth. Huge white teeth, in fine condition, no crookedness or impacted molars. "Say 'ah,'" he directed, using a wooden tongue depressor to get a better look at the man's tonsils. As far as the Medic could see, this man had never suffered a day's illness in his life. He removed the tongue depressor and made a few notations, still smiling serenely. "You are in excellent health. If you would be so good, remove ze boots and stand on ze scale." He gestured to a gunmetal gray balance-arm scale in the corner.   
  
THIS request, Heavy had no problem with. At times the numbers involved would get a laugh, and at worst he'd get amusement out of ignoring a horrified health nut. He was what he was, and as his father had put it, if you can carry your own weight and that of the man weighing you, that man should wisely shut up. Heavy took off his boots, a process that had more to do with lifting and turning them than with bending down, and stood on the scale.   
  
The Medic locked his face in a studious scowl as he pushed the weights on the scale to the right, further to the right, and further still, almost as far as they could go, before the scale balanced. Then he swung out the hinged steel arm to measure the Heavy's height. "Stand tall," he directed, and nearly lost his professional composure as the big man stood to attention. "Magnificent!" he exclaimed, noting height and weight on his clipboard. "Herr," he began, the eraser-end of his pencil beating an unconscious rhythm on his clipboard. "Though it is not strictly medically necessary, may I ask you a favor?"   
  
Heavy eyed the agitated tapping of the doctor's eraser. "You may ask..." he agreed, without taking his eyes from it.   
  
"Ze study of biometrics is a hobby of mine. Ze mechanics of the human form. Ze ratios of humerus to radius, ze leverage that they provide for efficient work, und so forth. You have demonstrated your ability to carry heavy loads for long distances, and to emerge victorious in any hand-to-hand combat. If I may, I would like to take a series of measurements of your bones und muscles." The Medic struggled with himself to keep the manic edge out of his voice, the worrisome intensity out of his eager smile. He was just going to measure, nothing more, he swore to himself.   
  
Heavy considered this. He didn't actually know a thing about the man in front of him, save for the clean state of his infirmary, and that the German was good enough at what he did to have been hired on to the teams in the first place. And NOTHING else. He didn't know half the words this doctor had just used to describe what he wanted to do, so the options were to refuse, to trust him, or... "Measure hand," Heavy decided, offering the Medic his right one, "Maybe measure more other time." ...After he'd had time to observe this Medic in action, and had figured out just what his game was, and if he even liked him.   
  
"Certainly. Ze process is quite painless, do not worry," the Medic chuckled, trying to disguise his disappointment. The Heavy was being cautious- had he gone too far, somehow revealed his unwholesome desires? The Medic took a sharp breath through his nose. The Russian was probably just wary of Medics, or Germans, or men with sharp implements in general. He could gain the man's trust, and further access to his imposing skeletal structure, by remaining professional now. He took off his stethoscope and mirror, and removed his gloves before taking a set of calipers and a metal ruler from his desk. "Please, remove ze gloves so I can make accurate measurements."   
  
Heavy took off his right glove, the well-worn leather half-retaining the shape of his hand as he set it down on the exam table beside him. The left glove joined it.   
  
Though the Medic's hands were by no means small, they looked dainty as he held the Heavy's huge right hand. He measured it exactingly- length from middle fingertip to wrist, span from the tip of the thumb to the tip of the pinkie, the circumference of each finger, the breadth of the knuckles, the diameter of a circle formed with thumb and forefinger. Humming faintly as he worked, the Medic began to forget his self-consciousness. The hand overall was thick and meaty, and somewhat callused despite the fingerless gloves. The thumb joint proved endlessly fascinating to the Medic- he lost himself in flexing the thumb, rotating it, caressing the muscular hummock where it joined the palm. His touch was almost a massage, pressing out the tightness that accrued from grasping the handle of the minigun.   
  
After a professional enough beginning, the doctor seemed to become almost childishly fascinated with his subject matter. He had said measuring things was a 'hobby' of his, and clearly he hadn't exaggerated... Heavy let him continue, though. For one thing, what the doctor was doing to his hand felt good, and for another, Heavy was curious about the odd dichotomy within his new teammate. He was cold steel, and... some sort of warm pastry, maybe.   
  
The Medic smiled to himself as he finished massaging the right hand and moved onto the left. Slightly shorter, slightly broader, still powerful... he took down all of the measurements before massaging that hand, this time pulling each of the fingers slowly but firmly. Realizing what he was doing, the Medic swallowed a contented sigh and stood up straight. "Thank you, Herr Heavy. This is fascinating data." He carefully reassembled the mask of his professional demeanor.   
  
Heavy flexed his hands, with a slight smile that was mostly in his eyes. He tightened them into fists, then relaxed both, and put his gloves back on. "It es not-- -Tank you, Doktor," he corrected finally, glancing over at his teammate, "-I see you on the field, da?"   
  
"Actually, ze strategy meeting is tomorrow at 0600. I expect that ze Soldier will brief you on that shortly, and at high volume. Ve shall discuss how to incorporate you into our team's tactics. Good evening."   
  
On his way back to what would be his room for the foreseeable future, Heavy flexed his hands inside his gloves a little. He was very aware of them, after what the Medic had done. ...But what had the doctor done, really? Nothing. Indulged in a hobby that was either childish or... well... pleasant for both of them... So far, Heavy reminded himself. He would watch this man. He would fight an the same field as this man, and watched how he cracked, and under which stresses. He would watch the rest of the team, and whether they feared this Medic or could rely on him. And then perhaps, he would find out if Medic's touch was as good on shoulders as they were with his hands...   
  
The Medic's good mood lasted until after the Heavy had left, after he had tidied his equipment away. As he filed his notes in the new man's chart, the Medic found himself thinking about what he had just done. Rubbing those huge hands, pulling the fingers, the things he wanted- he was disgusted with himself. He slammed the file cabinet shut and went to the base's dank gymnasium for calisthenics and the coldest shower possible in this very cold base.


	2. MEDIC, SOLO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was all TeratoMarty.

The BLU Medic had a problem. He was aware of it; he had been diagnosed at age seventeen. However, he had also been treated for it. The treatment was rigorous (torturous) and he had managed to act as though he was cured. It had been just that- an act, clumsy and halting- but he had convinced himself that he would become more natural in time. It had proven difficult, dull and distasteful, and he had eventually given up in favor of ignoring the topic altogether. Now, though, on the Coldfront base, miles from civilization, he was having trouble keeping his problem out of his mind.   
  
He wanted to blame the woman, to say that she had been ugly, or frigid, or stupid. She wasn’t though, not any of those things. Lilli was charming, intelligent, a sparkling conversationalist, and a lissome blonde textbook case of female loveliness. Every other man in the German garrison had been envious, wondering aloud why she had chosen him. He had wondered, too- Lilli had said it was because he was the only one who genuinely seemed to like her. He did like her, and when she took him to bed, he rejoiced in being completely cured. However, for all her lusty enthusiasm, all her playful willingness, sharing a bed with her had been a chore. Even the basic physical release was muted and uncertain.   
  
The Medic also wanted to blame the Heavy. Nothing about the big Russian was muted or uncertain. Noisy, boisterous, overwhelmingly physical, he filled every available space from edge to edge. Of course this made him the center of attention when he was in the room. However, wasn’t his fault that he inhabited the Medic’s mind at night. When the Medic was in his bunk alone, his mind dwelt on his large teammate- the muscles in his shoulders, the glint in his eyes, his booming laugh. He couldn’t be expected to account for the German’s unwholesome response. Worse still, the huge man was occasionally so overcome with enthusiasm that he would try to sweep the Medic up into a bear-hug. When that happened, the Medic had to think quickly, to will himself to fight like a wet cat. Otherwise- his mouth tasted bitter and electric at the thought- otherwise, he would relax into the Russian’s arms, otherwise, the man would feel proof of the Medic’s sickness hard against his thigh.   
  
Most of all, the Medic wanted to blame the treatment- six months of the closest thing to Hell on Earth that he could imagine, six months that made daily carnage seem like a walk through the daisies. Six months that his father had paid for, money that the family couldn’t afford, so that his only son could have a normal life- wasted money. Perhaps not entirely wasted, as the young man had spent the war as a Medic in the German army, rather than as an inmate in the camps... but still, unsuccessful as a cure. The treatment had never failed, he was told that on his first day in the hospital, and reminded every day for one hundred and eighty days thereafter. Ice-water immersion and a meager diet to curb physical lusts, electro-shock therapy to break pathological associations and erase neuroses, and complete isolation, days in the dark, at the first sign of relapse. With such thorough methods, the Medic believed that he must be the treatment’s only failure.   
  
He hadn’t wanted to fail. He had tried to be normal; when that failed, when he had let it fail by never writing to Lilli or looking for another woman when he was re-assigned, he had at least tried to be useful. Now, he was useful- an indispensable aid to an unstoppable force, his Heavy. And somehow that brought him back to the beginning: no-one to blame but himself as he lay alone on his bunk, imagining relaxing into the Russian’s strong arms. Thinking about the rumble of his deep voice as heard with an ear pressed to his chest. The scent of his skin, close and warm. The feel of his muscles against the Medic’s own. Wondering if his face in ecstasy was as brutally beautiful as in battle- and then the Medic was alone, having engaged in infantile self-gratification in pursuit of his perverse fantasies.   
  
The Medic had barely stopped spilling semen when he began shedding tears. He wept for Lilli’s kindness, his father’s good intentions, and wished that the treatment had simply killed him; it had seemed so close. The Heavy must never know. The Medic’s problem was his alone.


	3. BATTLEFIELD

The sky was low and grey, promising snow by sunset, but at least it wasn't as nose-stingingly cold as it had been the previous few days. The sounds of battle were flat, muted even though the battle for the control points was intense. The Heavy and Medic had just helped the Demoman to pin down the crucial central point, and were now pushing into the RED base to claim the second-to-last point. The RED Engineer had inconsiderately left a sentry in the doorway to the ramp.   
  
Heavy felt the sting of the first bullet across his left arm at the same time he heard the sudden mechanical whine of the turret's servomotor aiming, but the minigun in his hands was already spun up, and ready. He fired, leaning in against the gun's gyroscopic resistance as he ran, closing the distance to the turret fast. It could aim far faster than he could dodge at this range, and sidestepping would put Medic directly in the sentry's line of fire.   
  
The Medic gritted his teeth and pulled back the trigger on the medigun, bathing the Heavy in blue light. He watched the wound on the Heavy's arm for a moment as it sealed over, knowing that still more bullets were biting into the big man's chest, his face. Where a lesser man might have dodged, the Heavy forged ahead. The Medic wasn't at all sure he could have marched into machine gun fire with square shoulders, but the Heavy hardly seemed to notice. It gave him a strange feeling of safety for the middle of a battlefield.   
  
Heavy had learned to ignore most limb or gut-shots surprisingly quickly, but for some reason lung shots still bothered him. It was the feeling of having the wind knocked out of him, of having the oxygen that was left in his blood, and no more. Of fighting and losing, for something he took for granted at any other moment. Sudden cold around the hole in the bottom of his left lung as his indrawn breath whistled through it, without filling his lung, cold from the frigid winter outside. A thin fog of blue enveloped him though, and he drew strength from it, even as new vents opened in places he didn't have the time to keep track of. It didn't matter. His job was HERE!   
  
The sentry sparked as it's ammo belt jammed, and the explosion followed a moment after, more a pressure-shockwave in the close quarters than actual fiery warmth. The passage ahead was open, and Heavy took it.   
  
The Medic plunged after the Heavy, without so much as a scratch on him. He was grateful, and showed his gratitude by keeping one eye on the perimeter. Sure enough, the RED Engineer was barreling toward them, ready to avenge the death of his sentry. His shotgun was aimed at the Medic- the man was smart enough to know that he'd never be able to hurt the Heavy faster than the Medic could heal him.   
  
"Enemy, seven o'clock!" the Medic barked to his comrade.   
  
Squeezing the trigger as he began his quick left turn, Heavy laid down a line of fire that nearly cut the red engineer in half. The stubborn Texan fired anyway, and the solid buckshot pelted across the side of Heavy's thick flak vest, biting into his side a little under the bottom edge. One of the Doktor's white sleeves was streaking to red, but he -was- still standing, and a fierce and predatory triumph glittered from behind the shield of his glasses. It was a moment in the hailstorm, an approving half-grin as the holes in Heavy's chest sealed, and when the RED Engineer's body fell with a wet thud and his knocked-aside helmet had stopped spinning, it was over. They had a job to do... and, Heavy thought to himself, they were both -good- at it.   
  
The Medic was in his glory. He was alive- even the stinging pain in his arm was merely a testament to that fact- his team was alive, and the enemy was dying around them. His heart was pounding, and the Ubercharge meter on the medigun was building slowly. His heart beat harder still, if that was possible, as he anticipated the blue fire that was soon to surround them. The rush of fierce joy that accompanied the Ubercharge was every pleasure that he had denied himself, binding him to the Heavy more closely than he had ever permitted before. His mouth went dry, and he had to force himself to keep his eyes open for enemies.   
  
"YO DOC, A LITTLE HELP HEAH-?" the Scout demanded, spotting them from down a connecting passage and sprinting up quickly to catch up to within medigun range. He hadn't -quite- capped the point yet, and his last attempt had ended in being hurled bodily against a wall by the backlash of one of the RED Soldier's rockets. He stood a little unsteadily, and the dark hair on the right side of his head that could be seen below his baseball cap was obscured by something that had an unhealthy resemblance to raspberry jam.   
  
The Medic was ready to growl with frustration- he wanted to share the Ubercharge with the Heavy, and he wasn't about to waste it on a mere Scout. However, there were no enemies standing in the passage ahead of them, and the Heavy was at full health. He could spare a moment's worth of the healing rays for the brash American. He aimed the Medigun and let the machinery find its range to lock onto his young teammate, and watched with his usual satisfaction as the wounds healed.   
  
"Fuckin' A..." Scout muttered in relief, shutting his eyes. The ringing in his ears stopped, and whatever had come unstuck in his shoulder when he hit the wall re-knit itself. Heavy ignored the details of what medic was doing, and kept watch on the corridors over the heads of the other two, occasionally firing off a few shots down each hallway to spy-check.   
  
The Medic turned the medigun on the Heavy again. The Ubercharge meter was full- all he needed was an excuse to deploy it. A reason, any reason, just as long as he didn't get shot in the back and waste it. He cast about the hallway, headed for the RED team's final stronghold, as his finger hovered over the button on the handle of the medigun.   
  
Heavy had one foot down the ramp into the control point room when the blast of a sticky bomb hit him. Not critically, but it deafened him in his right ear, and sent the hot stinging needles of shrapnel tearing into the right side of his face and across his right arm. The RED Demoman was off to the right at the base of a stacked pair of shipping containers, laughing as he reached for something on the equipment harness of his flak vest. Heavy pivoted swiftly and fired his rotating minigun, realizing even as he completed the turn that he should have assessed the rest of the room first. No time, he was here NOW, so the RED Demo would die first. The bullets cut deep and swiftly, shredding the Demoman's thighs just below the level of his protective plate. There was a spray of blood from one wound as the man toppled, surprised. Bright, high-pressure blood that would kill the man nearly as fast as a bullet to the heart. …Heavy had managed to do that at the Yukon base once, firing at a Demoman from the side and above, so that the bullet went in through his armpit. The here-and-now Demoman went down, but a rifle shot rang out, too close, raising a tiny plume of dust at Heavy's feet. Their work was far from over.   
  
The BLU sticky bomb scattered the Medic with shrapnel, slashing his face and stinging his eyes. He gritted his teeth and deployed the healing beam to help the Heavy recover- he knew the big man had taken more of the blast. Blinking hard to clear his eyes, he peered around the Heavy, and heard the distinctive ricochet of a Sniper's bullet. The REDs in the room were a Soldier defending the control point, and a Sniper, minus the Demoman, now neutralized. The Heavy could deal with both of these irritants quickly enough, but the RED Sniper must surely be drawing a bead on his broad, noble forehead by now. The Medic was holding an ace, though- the Ubercharge meter was full, and he deployed the crackling blue beam on the Heavy. Let the enemy Sniper aim as carefully as he wanted! The Medic laughed with savage joy as he heard the minigun spin up again.   
  
The blue shield of the ubercharge came down across his vision, prickled across the Heavy's new-healing skin, and everything dropped into sharp, unnatural focus. They were INVINCIBLE. The RED Sniper didn't matter, he'd been targeting -them- and it would take him a moment to re-sight on anyone else. The RED Soldier- -THONK!- -too late, he'd already gotten one rocket away towards the BLU team's Pyro, but it WOULD be his last. Heavy charged into the middle of the room yelling, bullets going straight for the RED Soldier's center of mass. Somehow, with the odd clarity that accompanied this particular ubercharge, Heavy heard a fight breaking out in the hallway, and two clear blasts from a Scout's shotgun...   
  
"Heavy, zer Sniper, crate," the Medic hissed. "Shoot up through ze floor, I am certain Sasha can pierce ze metal." In the blue corona of fire, the sound of the minigun, of explosions and screams, sounded far away. It was just him, just the Heavy, together and safe from everything in the middle of the firefight. The glorious Ubercharge would only last a moment longer, though. He half-turned, keeping the medigun beam locked on, but ready to defend himself and his Heavy with his bonesaw in the moment of terrible vulnerability after the charge faded.   
  
Heavy didn't question it. He knew exactly what the German meant, and he acted on it without hesitation, one foot dropping back to brace himself from overbalancing as he fired almost straight up. The first spray of bullets ricocheted off in a spray of metal-on-metal-sparks, but the bullets that followed carved a hole, erupting upwards. There was a choked scream, but no falling body. Just a seeping wash of blood starting down the side of the container, and a tattered slouch hat spiraling downwards through the gunsmoke.   
  
The Ubercharge cut out, leaving the world louder, lonelier, agoraphobically open. There were definitely REDs closing in from the hallway behind them, and damaged teammates on the ground around them. "Get on ze point!" the Medic snapped at the Heavy as he performed a visual triage. The Pyro was least damaged and would be the most help against the incoming REDs, so he got the Medigun's healing rays first. If the Scout was still alive when he was done, and if the Heavy was holding the point on his own, the Medic might heal the skinny runner.   
  
Heavy bristled a little at this order, glancing at the medic silently out of the corner of his eye. The room was clear for now, and their own team's Soldier had appeared out of nowhere on the top of the shipping crates, swearing and kicking the dead RED Sniper's body, which was held up on hooks of torn metal. The Doktor was going for their wounded Pyro, so holding the point would be up to him until either the Scout got through, which wasn't looking likely, or the Soldier- "-COME DOWN HERE!" Heavy bellowed upwards, "LEAVE SKINNY BODY, MORE COMING SOON!"   
  
The Medic was reviving the Pyro as the RED reinforcements poured in the door. A Scout, a Heavy without a Medic, and... another BLU Pyro. He shut off the medigun long enough to touch the BLU Pyro in front of him- there was no tell-tale ripple of red- and he shouted toward the newcomer, "Ze Pyro is a spy!" His Heavy needed him now, it was the only way to defeat the other team's Heavy. He squeezed around a crate to try to take up position behind the control point when the BLU Soldier, tired of mangling the RED Sniper's corpse, yelled "MEDIC!"   
  
Heavy's lip curled in disgust at the Soldier's distress call, and he set his teeth, feet planted firmly on the control point cover. ...The Soldier had just climbed up a stack of shipping containers from the back and NOT fought the RED Sniper at all, what would he need healing FROM, the jump DOWN? And the Soldier's timing couldn't have been worse, with the RED Heavy just showing up... Still, an ubered Soldier WAS a powerful force, and if the Doktor could get to full charge with one of them still on the point... The RED Heavy had spun up now, and he HAD to fire back, there was no time to go spy chasing. He would, Heavy thought philosophically, die doing this, but if it bought enough time for his teammates to get to the point as well...   
  
"Dummkopf," the Medic growled under his breath. Pulling out his syringe gun, he arced a stream of stinging needles over the Heavy and the central control point to rain down on the enemy Spy, at the rear of the incoming REDs' formation. He cursed the RED team for crowding their control room with crates and detritus- he was having trouble getting in a position to heal his Heavy without making himself vulnerable to the enemy team. The RED Scout was irritatingly nimble, leaping and juking over the rubble and firing indiscriminately with his sawed-off shotgun. Finally, the Medic was near enough to be of some use- if only both the enemy and his own Heavy could be relied upon to hold position for a moment.   
  
It was like standing in the path of a meteor shower. Minigun against Minigun, they pounded each other back, and away from, the control point. There was a flaring light of orange flame to one side as the BLU team's Pyro tried to catch the RED Scout as he ran. The BLU soldier thudded to the ground somewhere behind Heavy. ...How high would the medigun charge be by now?   
  
Heavy's flak vest was taking a lot of the damage, but it was damaged, and the bullets were getting through now, breaking ribs, tearing his lungs, organs the sun should never see, ripping through his upper arm, scoring the side of his head and making his ear sting in a way that made him pretty sure it was mostly gone... The Soldier was on the point with him now, he could move, get OUT of this hot lead firestorm for a moment, and force the other Heavy to choose who to target, and who to expose his back to...   
  
The Medic stepped out of the relative safety behind a crate just in time for the BLU Heavy to step aside. He didn't have time to trigger the medigun, didn't even have time to shout, before the RED's bullets shredded him. The pain was intense, scalding his entire body as he screamed, then mercifully cut off.   
  
Behind Heavy, the Medic screamed. His Medic had taken cover to heal the Soldier though- -hadn't he? The medigun's beam would reach without breaking cover, why had he still--?   
  
CRACK.   
  
Blackness, then a heartbeat. Heavy's own.   
  
He wass suspended in that state between waking and dreaming for a few moments more, then his boots were solidly on the floor, and the lights came up.   
  
The Medic respawned, nauseated. Even as he gained his feet, he heard the Administrator wail "YOU HAVE FAILED ME" over the PA system. He dropped his bonesaw and groaned in defeat. "My skill is WASTED on this team!" He glowered over at the other teammates in the resupply room.   
  
Maybe he was still coming out of the disorientation of respawn, and maybe it was being lumped in with the likes of the Soldier and Scout, but it seemed to Heavy as if the Medic was yelling directly at -him-.   
  
Could he have done more?   
  
Heavy considered, watching the seething German in front of him making spasmodic motions with his long-gloved hands and trying not to pace.   
  
No, Heavy decided. Not without knowing that the Doktor planned to ignore the Soldier's distress call after answering both the Scout's and the Pyro's... and that had been, as far as Heavy could tell, an arbitrary decision on Medic's part. The Doktor was upset. They ALL were, after almost capturing the point like that, but turning around and blaming his team was something he'd have expected the Soldier to do, not their highly-disciplined Medic...   
  
"Is it too much to ask," the Medic hissed at the Heavy, "that one's teammates at least look to see where the man charged to heal them is standing? Bearing in mind that this man wears no body armour, because he must run to and fro across the field of battle answering every schweinhund who whines for help?" His voice rose as he spoke, until he was roaring.   
  
Heavy's face hardened. "If you answer every coll, you would not be- -have been behind me when I move. You heal Scout, Pyro, then Soldier calls. How do I know you did not move?”   
  
"I healed Pyro only after all of the enemy were dead! I did not heal the Scout as he had bled white, and the verdammter Soldat can look after himself if he is well enough to shout! When the enemy engaged us again, I returned to my position! This is all according to our strategy!" Wrenching at the straps of the Medigun pack, the Medic let the weighty, fragile apparatus drop to the ground with a clank. "Did you sleep through the briefing?"   
  
"I know briefing, but-" Heavy paused, studying the Doktor's face for a moment. The man was dead serious. Heavy had endured countless such briefings at his former base, and watched the medic there do exactly the same thing, day after day: respond to all cries for help. The man would usually be shaking by the end of the day, closeted in his infirmary with his American jazz records and a bottle of red wine, but he saw it as his duty to-   
But this medic wasn't the same man, and by god he was serious. He'd ignored the Soldier... to stay with HIM... and stick to the PLAN.   
  
Suddenly, Heavy was ashamed. This Doktor had just proved himself to be all the things Heavy had subconsiously wished his old medic could have been, TRUE backup, TRUE nerve, a tactician in his own right, healing those he deemed would be the most effective pieces on the board...   
  
And he'd just let the man down, critically.   
  
Heavy put both hands around the Doktor's shoulders, and looked down into the German's irate face soberly. "I have... misjudged you. This thing will not happen again."   
  
Opening his mouth to resume his tirade, the Medic froze. He had been anticipating a shouting match, been almost looking forward to venting his feelings in a way that would leave them both red in the face and sweating... and angry, stubborn, unable to function as a team for days afterward, he realised. Moreover, the Heavy had listened to him, agreed to go along with his plan, the team's tactics. This was unheard of. He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. "Do we understand each other? I will heal you at all times when we are engaged with the enemy, and you will cover me? If we become separated, I will move to join you, and you will keep watch for me?"   
  
It sounded like a contract, Heavy thought, and basically it was. Agree, and he could form a combat-team with this man such as would cost the REDS many a sleepless night. Refuse, and the Doktor would never take him seriously again. Agree and let the Doktor down again, and he'd probably respawn in six different pieces.   
  
"I vill do this," Heavy nodded.   
  
Thoroughly bewildered by this reasonable attitude, the Medic took off his heavy rubber gauntlets.   
  
"We will both do this. If we adhere to these tacics, we will be unstoppable." He extended a bare hand. "And... we probably do not need to shout at one another." He managed a tiny, lopsided smile for the larger man's benefit   
  
"-Ve shout at OTHER team," Heavy grinned, and took the Medic's warm, sweat-damp hand in his own half-gloved one, enveloping it completely. "Come Doktor, after battle like dis, there must be food..." Heavy began, propelling the Medic towards the door to the hallway.   
  
As soon as they were through the doorway, Scout turned to Sniper, who had respawned halfway through the confrontation.   
  
"Awright, WHAT just happened?"   
  
"Takes all kinds,” Sniper shrugged, the fingers of his left hand going automatically to check that the bullets in his upper vest pocket had respawned with him.


	4. SAUNA

The short dusk was already fading into an early night at the Coldfront base. The Administrator called cease-fire for the day, and the teams retreated gratefully to their bases to try to get warm. The BLU team considered themselves lucky, since the Engineer and the Heavy had turned one of the ramshackle outbuildings into a sauna. Even the Soldier had taken to the godless Communist idea when it became evident that it was a good excuse to run naked into the snow, screaming. Only the Medic remained aloof, his body as chilly as his demeanor, with his own reasons for avoiding a warm room full of his naked team-mates.   
  
This time, the Heavy would succeed. He strode off through the base, a large blue and white bath towel in hand. There was another such towel over his shoulder. There was, he'd learned, a small window of time between the calling of cease-fire, and the doctor being too involved in his own interests (a German book, cleaning his instruments, a large and troublingly red-clouded jar of murky translucent fluid...) to be involved in anything more for the day. Heavy knew this window, as he was beginning to learn many of the Medic’s patterns on the field and off, and he'd used it before. He knocked at the door of the infirmary, received no answer but a familiar rush of cooling fans, and went in. Off to the right, there was a room, barely more than a closet, that housed the power packs for the Medigun. It was always cold in there, but Heavy knew that the power packs themselves would still be faintly warm to the touch. Technology was a marvel sometimes... Medic's back, through the damp lozenge on the back of his white lab coat, was visibly tense. The alternating cold of the day outside, and the heat of the Medigun's power pack couldn't have been a good combination, Heavy thought absently... "Doktor..." Heavy greeted him, warmly, "-you must come vith me this time. Was long day, and Scout has found ping-pong table. Vill be quiet. come."   
  
Medic had heard Heavy approaching, so he wasn't exactly startled, but he did cast a twitchy gaze at the big man holding out a towel. "I do not think so, Herr. The Medigun beam was weak toward the end of the battle today, I believe I need to re-tune the power cells." He focused his attention on the ridged silver cylinders.   
  
"Beam felt okay to me," Heavy told him, frankly. ...He knew perfectly well there was nothing really wrong with the Medigun, but somehow calling Medic out on it didn't taste right. ...but it hadn't felt right to call him out on the half-dozen excuses he'd used before, and it was probably something silly, like hairy toes, or a mole somewhere embarrassing that no-one else would even notice... "If gun is broken, bring gun. Ve give to engineer on the way."   
  
"I do not want to-" the Medic shook his head, and his neck gave a sickening crack loud enough for Heavy to hear, and probably audible to the rest of the base. "Ouhh..." he rubbed his shoulder.   
  
The Heavy wasn’t sure exactly when he'd made the decision to begin the action, but his hands found their way to the base of the doctor's neck anyway. The bones there were delicate. Carefully stacked, and about as stable as a house of cards, if he'd braced with his fingers and dug a thumb in... He didn't, of course. He ran a forefinger over the line of the bones at the back of the Medic's neck, noting where bone meshed back into the comparative safety of muscle. Carefully, Heavy took either side of the base of the doctor's neck between finger and thumb, and rubbed experimentally.   
  
"Agk-" Medic stiffened immediately under Heavy's hands, the sweat in the center of his back going cold. But the big man's hands were so warm, and surprisingly gentle. Under the layers of his coat, shirt and undershirt, Medic's shoulder muscles felt like a row of walnuts. He could barely move after the day's battle, and he knew he'd be in agony the next morning. "How do I do this sauna, then?"   
  
"Vell..." Heavy drew his answer out, surprised that Medic hadn't brushed him off yet, "You come vith me. Take towel, so to be not bare butt on wooden bench. Tell Pyro heat rocks, if is not already done..." he continued rubbing the Medic's shoulders as he spoke, feeling the tightly-wound strings of muscle pass under his fingers almost as individuals rather than grouped contours.   
  
"Ja..." Medic allowed Heavy to steer him down the hallway by his shoulders. Even as his shoulders relaxed, a sick feeling boiled in the pit of his stomach. The huge Russian was touching him, and it felt so unholy good, addictive as morphine and even more dangerous. No-one could know. But then, an insidious piece of his mind told him, if all of the team were taking sauna-baths, wouldn't it be conspicuous to refuse? Perhaps it would be all right to go this once, just to fit in. He took the towel from Heavy's hand.   
  
The Heavy beamed as the Medic finally took one of the towels from him. "Good!" he declared, and put an arm around the smaller man's shoulders, partly because he was happy his high-strung friend had finally agreed to come try this, and partly to keep him moving in the desired direction. "-You vill like. In Siberia, everyone know heat is good for health. You sit up on second bench. Heat is best there, but Pyro cannot go. Much heat in Pyro suit already..."   
  
As they approached the side door near the makeshift sauna, Medic's misgivings became stronger. "Where are we to undress?" Looking around, he couldn't see even the barest nod to privacy, and he couldn't decide whether it would be worse to undress indoors and cross the compound naked, or to undress in the little shed in front of Heavy. At least walking outside naked might ensure that he wouldn't get an erection.   
  
"Is shelf for clothes by ze door," Heavy assured him, pointing. "And if Demoman takes clothes again for flag, I leave him in snowbank for half-hour this time. Is safe." Without further ado, Heavy began to strip out of his slightly-too-small flak vest.   
  
Medic clenched his jaw and turned to face the wall. For the most part, he was able to avoid being naked with his teammates. He always dressed before breakfast in the morning, and the infirmary had a shower stall that he used instead of joining the others in the communal shower. He knew that nudity was the natural state, and therefore superior, but he also knew that a glance that was even a heartbeat too long would give him away as unnatural. He would be correct, he was trying so hard- he noticed with a bitter pride that his bowstring-tension and fraying nerves were at least preventing him from showing physical arousal. Gritting his teeth, Medic wrapped his towel around his waist and bolted out into the snow toward the sauna.   
  
Heavy was surprised when Medic beat him to the outer door, but one glance at the hard set of the Doctor's clean-angled jaw and tightly-pursed lips told him why. Medic was the kind of man to do what had to be done, without hesitation. ...And at the moment, that apparently meant dashing through the cold between them and the sauna as quickly as possible. The Heavy smirked approvingly, pulled off the last of his clothes, and followed.   
  
Once in the sauna, the difference between the crystal-cold air outside and the soupy, warm air inside was a shock to the Medic's system. He gasped for breath, and had to sit heavily on one of the benches. The smell in the little room was indescribable- hot rocks, old, dry wood, steam, and the sweat of each and every one of his teammates, contained and concentrated in this small, still place.   
  
Heavy shut the wooden door to the sauna behind him, plunging the small room back into heat-lit dimness, and felt the snow packed between his toes instantly begin to melt. Medic was there ahead of him, sitting on one of the lower benches, and looking more like a trapped snowshoe hare than was quite right. Heavy set his towel aside, poured a half-bucket of water from the repurposed 55-gallon drum in the corner over his body, and re-wrapped the towel around his waist when most of the water had run off. He sat down on the bench beside the still-silent Medic, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Is good to breathe, Doktor," he advised.   
  
Forcing some air into his lungs, Medic finally took note of his surroundings. The Pyro was on the bench right beside him- it was sheer luck he hadn't ended up in the rubber-clad creature's lap. On one of the middle benches, two of his other teammates were taking their ease. Looking up over the rims of his steamed-up glasses into the gloom, Medic recognised Sniper's lanky shape and the unmistakable corona of Demoman's curly hair. Was it dark enough in here to conceal where he was looking? To conceal what his traitorous body might do? The Medic did not trust it.   
  
"D'ye wanna drink, sawbones?" Demo asked, hopeful that the newcomer would prove as reasonable as Solly had. He tapped the back of Medic's shoulder with the bottom of a tepid-feeling brown glass bottle.   
  
The Heavy gave the Demoman a warning look. Demo laughed, his strong, slightly chipped teeth flashing in the glow of the firelight even as his eyes vanished in mirth. Heavy muttered something half-amused under his breath in Russian, and turned back to Medic. "Is important to drink, but have drink that will not catch in fire. Ve have water in cooler under bench, und beer if Soldier does not drink all."   
  
"Hrm-hrrrhm," the Pyro added, and saluted them both with a straw-garnished plastic bottle.   
  
"Alcohol is dehydrating." The Medic felt more at home if he was able to chastise someone. "I will have water, please." Now that he wasn't fighting it, the heat was indeed soothing. He could feel it easing the tightness in his lungs, the pressure in his sinuses.   
  
Pyro reached under the bench, and got a fresh bottle out of the cooler. A skim of snow clung to it's sides as he handed it over, already beginning to melt and slide downwards. Behind them in the shadow further up, Sniper sighed quietly, sinking further back on his elbows in the mercifully bone-thawing heat of the dim room. Heavy leaned forwards on the bench, hands on his knees. The bench creaked slightly. Medic was breathing easier now he noticed, almost relaxing, and the dark lock of hair curled across the doctor's forehead was beginning to droop with the humidity. Heavy shut his eyes, and absently worked on one of the knots in the Doctor's shoulder with the side of his thumb.   
  
Medic's stomach dropped as Heavy touched his shoulder. He was sweating- that was fine, it was a sauna. Everyone in here was sweating. His towel was wrapped tightly around his waist, and he clenched his hands together in his lap, trying to prevent any physical response. However, as Heavy continued to work on his shoulders without any apparent intent or focused attention, the Medic found it harder and harder to resist. He slumped slightly on the bench, letting the huge Russian do as he pleased in the warm dark.   
  
Finally, Heavy thought, without looking over at his Doktor directly. Some combination of the wholesome heat and shadowed quiet of the sauna was getting through to the high-strung German, as he'd hoped it would. Medic's breathing was slower. His eyes- Heavy glanced over without moving his head- closed without undue tension. Yes. Talking to the Engineer about building a sauna had been a good idea. If the Doctor could take care of them all day, the least they could do at the end of it was have the imagination to return the favor.   
  
The low wind against the walls outside sounded very far away. Heavy sat back against the next highest row of benches, keeping his hand on Medic's shoulder. The bench creaked as the teammates settled down. Medic sighed quietly, a sound more felt against the palm of Heavy's hand than heard.   
  
Pyro's straw made a childish slurping sound, as the water in the bottom ran out.


	5. COLDFRONT FANTASY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was all TeratoMarty.

In the Medic’s mind, the Heavy was naked. Shameless, utterly relaxed, he lay in the sterile sanctum of the operating room. The German fantasized about measuring every part of the huge man, from his pronounced saggital crest to the tiniest distal phalanx of his smallest toe. This last, the Medic knew from covert observation, was almost comically tiny, and all but hidden beneath the larger toes. The Medic suspected that his large teammate had worn inadequate, undersized shoes for much of his childhood.   
  
With each bone and joint accounted for, the Medic would be free to concentrate on more subtle metrics- the width of the man’s smile, the distance between his nipples, from his nipples to his groin. Calipers and a ruler would be insufficient for these tender spans- fingertips, lips and tongue would provide much more meaningful data.   
  
Temperature was important, also- the Medic envisioned the Heavy’s body as a chart of heat. His shoulders and chest were high, round, warm from the giant muscles underneath, with two peaks where blood rushed to his tiny, rose-pink nipples. The expanse of his belly would be a cool slope where fat insulated his internal organs, but the temperature rose quickly, sharply, at his groin.   
  
Quietly frantic, the Medic wondered how he could make love to the man. The only anatomical option for sexual penetration was impossibly disgusting, every filthy, vile thing that the Medic was terrified of becoming. The relatively safe, sanitary confines of a woman’s anatomy held no appeal, though. The Medic longed to caress the Russian man’s square, stubbled jaw and hairy chest as he pressed into a warm body- but how?   
  
The Medic thought about Hegar sounds, and their use in stretching the urethral opening. They had been invented to restore normal urinary function to organs ravaged by venereal disease, but some of the tools were quite wide... very wide, indeed. He imagined sliding a narrow one into the Heavy’s penis, holding the organ carefully upright in his gloved hand and letting the slick steel instrument slide in under its own weight. If he worked carefully, if he practiced over several weeks, could he stretch the tiny hole wide enough to penetrate? Could their organs ever fit together in that way? He would need plenty of lubrication in order to slide an average-sized penis such as his own bodily into another man. It would be tight, and he would need to support his lover, to hold the Heavy’s organ carefully as he thrust. The motions would have to be small, subdued to achieve such intimacy- a delicious delicacy of contact with such a powerful man. He imagined orgasm, a rush of pleasure filling the Russian's testes with the Medic's semen, which would mingle with the other man’s own seed. In his mind, the larger man tolerated this, smiled at the Medic with mild pleasure.   
  
Breathing heavily, sitting up alone in the soiled sheets of his narrow bed, the Medic cursed his half-dreaming thoughts. He fought the urge to hug himself like a frightened child. If he were a real man, he would not entertain these depraved notions. It was only because he was a sick, sick person that they occurred to him at all. He swallowed hard around a knot of panic in his throat, and methodically changed his sheets as the base’s constant draught chilled his sweaty skin. He was certain that the Heavy had never harbored such thoughts, and would be righteously repulsed by what the Medic had in mind. He would surely beat the German half to death, if he knew.   
  
The Medic lay back down and fell asleep to the fantasy of the Heavy’s weight bearing down on him, huge fists pounding his entire body.


	6. PROXY TOUCH

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Medic has mental problems.   
> Hope you like guro.'
> 
> This one was all Teratomarty.

The Medic found that he could not stop thinking about how to bring the Heavy’s body into conjunction with his own. He didn’t dare to think of it as ‘making love,’ love was something a man did with a woman, and he had failed dismally at that. The Medic had heard of men- simpering, abnormal men- who let themselves be used as women, but it was inconceivable that the Russian would allow such an obscenity. He would surely kill any man who attempted to use him in that way. The Medic’s ideas about his teammate began to take on a dangerous tone.   
  
Paradoxically, the Medic did not feel so violent on the battlefield. The most perfect peace he knew was marching out, oblivious to the gunfire around him, shielded by his Heavy’s huge body. After an absolute minimum of miscommunication, they now functioned as a perfect unit. The Heavy moved, the Medic followed. The big man always announced his intent to change position or direction, never leaving the Medic without cover or strafing him with friendly fire, but lately the Medic found that he could read the set of his teammate’s shoulders. He knew what the plan would be, before it was spoken. In return, the Medic never abandoned his Heavy. They always returned to each other on the field, whether they were separated by an explosion, a wall of flame, or Death itself.   
  
A good day on the battlefield left the Medic too tired to do anything but eat his rations and collapse onto his bunk. A bad day, though... a day of stalemate or cease-fire, gave the Medic time to crave. The energy that would otherwise be expended in carrying the Medigun apparatus wound itself into knots in his gut.   
  
Cease-fire was the worst. While his teammates watched television or relaxed in the makeshift sauna, the German would clean his laboratory, organize the base’s stores, drill or engage in calisthenics. Anything, everything to avoid his own thoughts. Left to its own devices, his treacherous mind always returned to the same topic- the Heavy Weapons Specialist.   
  
The man was obviously too powerful to be taken by brute force. He would not permit himself to be chained or beaten into submission. Fortunately, the Medic had other methods at his disposal. The cupboards in his laboratory held enough sedatives to dose a small town. Moreover, the Heavy was oh so obedient- the big man trusted him, the Medic realized with a pang of guilt- he would comply with the Medic’s advice. If the Medic said his Heavy needed a vitamin injection, then the Russian would report to the infirmary at once.   
  
Only when he awoke, strapped to an operating table, clothing cut away, would he realise that he had been tricked. The Medic wanted him awake, angry, and completely under control. He wanted to see the titanic Russian’s muscles bulge and strain as he tried to free himself, wanted to see him sweat with effort.   
  
The Medic had an electro-sapper that he had captured from a RED Spy- the man had unwisely tried to imitate the BLU Demoman in order to request healing, as if the Medic didn’t know that his teammate would be defending the home point. After using the bonesaw to teach the Spy the error of his ways, the Medic had appropriated the device. Its operation was relatively simple: turn it on, and it would deliver a powerful shock via its electrode arms. Two toggles controlled the power and frequency, while the voltage could be adjusted via a dial. The Spy had marked the appropriate settings to disrupt teleporters, sentries and dispensers, respectively, but the device had quite a range. The Medic was quite certain that he could replace the suction-cup electrodes with adhesive ones designed for medical applications. These could be attached to the Heavy, putting his incredible musculature under the Medic’s complete control. Alone in his bunk, the Medic’s hand slipped into his boxers as he thought about this.   
  
He was indulging in this pathetic, childish habit more and more lately, sometimes as often as every week. Something about the Heavy corroded his resolve, seeing the big man nude in the sauna possessed his mind. Perhaps the decadent warmth of the steam bath was a contributing factor. The Medic promised himself that he would deny these pleasures, control himself more rigorously... after this.   
  
For the time being, though, the Medic considered the prospect of having the Heavy at his mercy.. Harsh clinical lights, the smell of antiseptic and hot water, the Heavy’s powerful frame immobile on an operating table. Not too immobile, though, he had to have some leeway to thrash as electricity poured through him. The Medic would make him flex his arms, his thighs, his calves, make his toes curl... Early neurological researchers, working with the crudest equipment, had managed to provoke displays of every possible human response, voluntary or involuntary. The sapper would enable the Medic to force his Heavy to smile, to weep, to roar in pain...   
  
Would it be possible, the Medic wondered (stroking himself harder) to stimulate the copulatory reflexes? Yes, electrodes placed at the dorsal root ganglia of the sacrum should do nicely. Possibly two below the iliac crest on the abdomen, if he could split the leads. It might take experimentation. Extensive experimentation. Oh, god.   
  
In command of the Russian’s most primal impulses, the Medic could force him to orgasm again and again. Thrashing, panting, thrusting, he could- No. The Medic forced his mind away from thoughts about touching the Heavy with anything other than cold, pure instruments. Not his own body, his own penis. No. Testing the limits of orgasmic capacity, watching as the huge man spilled semen on his thighs, his belly, squirting as far as his chest, that was scientific observation.   
  
Perhaps, (the Medic’s grip was painfully tight) perhaps he could dissect the Heavy’s abdomen before applying the electrodes, watch his pelvic and inguinal muscles pulse in response to the electrical stimulation as he came to orgasm repeatedly. The Medic wondered if any such combination of vivisection and electrostimulation had ever been attempted in Galvani’s experiments. The Medic had seen the bare muscles of a frog’s leg twitch, but never watched semen rushing through naked semeniferous tubules. He imagined the structures pulsating, quivering before spewing semen into blood, before the Heavy’s desperate, dying groan-   
  
Once again the Medic had fouled his bed, once again planned torturous, filthy things on the man who was kindest to him in the world. Chills of revulsion crept over the Medic as he changed his sheets. How could he want such things? What kind of monster was he? He lay awake for some time, fighting off the temptation to dose himself with morphine.


	7. WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU USE THE MEDIGUN IN AN ENCLOSED SPACE?

"Heavy, you must let me heal that wound!" The Medic paced after his large teammate. "Had I known that it was still there, I would never have taken off the Medigun! Come to the infirmary at once!" The battle had gone badly, and tempers were frayed. The Medic felt that he had let the team down by taking a crit rocket to the back just before he could deploy a crucial Übercharge. He could not shirk his duty, as represented by the blood oozing out from under the Heavy's vest.   
  
Heavy had a healthy respect for the Doktor's temper and tenacity in battle, but he had a temper of his own, and he was trying like hell to keep it in check. Medic wasn't the enemy here... But if this man kept ordering him around like a child, he-! ...No. This was -his- Doktor, and he would not. Heavy elected to ignore the Medic's orders however, and continued down the hall. One pause in the infirmary, Heavy knew, and they'd be there all night before Medic was satisfied he was still breathing.   
  
"Where are you going?" the Medic snapped at his teammate. "The infirmary is this way!" He tried to grab the Russian's arm and tow him toward the infirmary, but he might as well have been trying to tow a tank. The Medic's fingers tingled as they closed on the big man's bicep, though.   
  
Feeling Medic's fingers snag the front of his arm insistently, Heavy -did- stop. He shut his eyes, set his jaw, then re-opened them, and looked over at the Medic who -owned- said clogging arm with great impatience.   
  
"I am fine. Is cut, nothing more. Have hurt worse from set Sasha on -foot-, Doktor. Today is..." Heavy sighed, trying to sum up exactly what had gone wrong first and failing, "- bad day. I am going to take sauna now. Do you come vith me, or no?"   
  
"I..." The Medic was still unsure how he felt about the sauna. It was dangerous, so terribly dangerous, and so tempting because of it. But if his Heavy was going there, and could not be persuaded into the infirmary, then it was where he had to go. "Fess... fine. I will bring the Medigun to you, in the sauna, and heal you there. Will you accept that much of my futile attempt at assistance?" His words came out more bitterly than he meant.   
  
Acid. The Heavy could never be sure how much of it the Medic truly meant when he spoke like this, but there was no arguing with him. The alternatives were to obey, or to leave, quickly. This time, Heavy could do both in good conscience. ...He chose not to.   
  
"Bring what you need, Doktor. I... bring towel. But I vill wait by ze door."   
  
"Sehr gut. I will return in five minutes." Having unleashed that tone, the Medic did not know how to take it back- the concept of apology did not cross his mind. Fortunately, he had a ready-made excuse to turn on his heel and leave, extracting himself from a situation in which he could only make further harsh comments. He marched down the hall toward the infirmary and retrieved the Medigun from its storage locker, its power cells from their charging dock. After reassembling the components, he strode toward what everyone on base was now calling the sauna door.   
  
Heavy was, as he had promised, waiting by the sauna door. He'd already stripped down and changed into the towel he'd brought, and he was more than a little curious about how the medic would do the same while wearing his Medipack. It was a weighty apparatus for such a spare man, with hard canvas-and-leather straps that dug in over the course of the day, even through Medic's coat and shirt. He... couldn't be thinking of going into the sauna fully clothed, could he?   
  
The Medic, too, was considering this problem. He was still wearing his winter-weight uniform, complete with high, oiled-leather boots, and was not really inclined to strip any of it off. He decided to continue wearing his whole kit, heal the Heavy quickly, and leave the sauna as soon as possible. He arrived to find the giant Russian already naked, completely free of self-consciousness in a way that was curiously innocent for an enormous mercenary. For his part, the Medic tried to discreetly avert his gaze from his teammate's naked body.   
  
Yes, Heavy realized, Medic -was- thinking of going into the sauna in full gear. "Is no good, Doktor. You vill be soaked one minute inside, then back out in snow? No good. You know dis." Heavy folded his arms, immovable.   
  
The Medic was struck by the tectonic shift of the Heavy's vast muscles. He didn't want to be sharp with the larger man again, especially not with the Heavy standing there like a living god. The blood still oozing from under the Heavy's ribs made another telling argument for expedience. Turning his back, the Medic set down the Medigun apparatus and began to undress.   
  
The Medic was tired, Heavy noticed. Something about the way he put a hand to the wall while taking off his boots, or maybe the softly muttered German curse when his thick gloves, rubber stiffened by the chill near the door, made him fumble a button. Heavy was tired too... WAS the team leaning on them more, now that they'd proven their effectiveness as a two-man unit? Yes. Yes, they -were-. ...But were they right to...? He'd have to think about that one more, Heavy decided.   
  
"-You are ready?" he asked aloud.   
  
"One moment-" the Medic shouldered the backpack portion of the Medigun, its straps settling into the rows of permanent small bruises they pinched into the skin of his shoulders. "Ja. Let us go."   
  
Heavy glanced at the Medipack for a moment, but kept his silence. He wasn't the one who'd insisted on bringing it. Through the door, and the cold hit them squarely, stealing breath and turning it white. A dash and it was over, the dark wooden door of the sauna banging shut behind them. Pyro, who had been hanging around outside to cool off, poked his head in the door and mumbled a question.   
  
The Medic hissed at the sudden temperature change, coughed, and poured a can of water over the hot rocks so that he could breathe in the steam. "Pardon, Herr Pyro, I did not understand?" The Medic tugged at the towel he'd wrapped around his waist, looking at the frayed hem rather than face either of his teammates.   
  
"Rocks very good, ve thank you," Heavy told his most ambiguous of teammates. The Pyro mumbled something else, and pointed at the Medipack, head on one side.   
  
"Herr Heavy is still wounded after the last push of the day. I have brought my equipment to complete the healing. Do you also require assistance, Herr Pyro?" The Medic kept his tone absolutely professional, although some needling part of him was hoping that the Pyro would leave him and the Heavy alone in the sauna. A different, frightened part of him was equally wishing that the Pyro would stay, an odd, fire-resistant chaperon.   
  
The Pyro thought for a moment, head tilting in the opposite direction, then gave them a thumbs-up and departed. Quiet. Quiet and deep, warm shadows. Not complete quiet, though... the sauna hadn't been hot long, and the benches and walls were still creaking from time to time, adjusting. Outside, the wind worried at the narrow crack between door and frame, but its cold fingers could no longer reach here.   
  
"Put pack down, Doktor," Heavy suggested, "-ve are here."   
  
The Medic did not grunt as he set the pack down, but only because it would have been undignified. After such a long day as this, the sentiment was definitely there. He took a moment to grab a handful of snow from the outside and scrub it over his face before hefting the arm of the Medigun.   
  
"Herr Heavy, you may sit. Turn toward me and expose the wound, please." This way he could focus the beam, rather than washing it at random as he did in battle. He could also see more of the Heavy's blood...   
  
The narrow cut along Heavy's side didn't so much hurt as it stung where the sweat had gotten into it. Now that the rest of him was beginning to feel better, it was... unpleasant. Medic looked very ready to begin, too... Heavy didn't usually dwell on things of this kind in real time, but he'd never -seen- a Medic by low, reddish-orange light, naked to the waist, holding a Medigun. ...He'd better look elsewhere, though. His friend was remarkably modest, and- -arm UP. Right. Heavy brought his arm up out of the way, resting his hand on the back of his neck so he wouldn't have to think about it.   
  
The Medic pulled down the trigger handle of the Medigun, then twisted the ring on the barrel to tighten the beam from its battle settings. He let the stream of luminous vapors wash over his Heavy's skin, tracing serratus and rectus abdominus. Without realizing it, his eyes were tracking the beam's path, caressing the Russian's skin. The vapors followed as his eyes traced the Heavy's ribcage, his chest hair, his nipple, the upward thrust of his arm above his head-   
  
It felt good, as the sting along his side eased. Warm. The beam was still on, that was nice of him... Typical over-thoroughness, but it went to work on the small muscle Heavy had not-quite-pulled in the side of his neck, on the inside of his hand, where the Minigun's vibration hit hardest... Good. Better than good, this felt -wonderful-...   
  
"Hmmmm..." Heavy stretched both arms over his head with a smile, like a long-bodied cat spreading it's toes under the joy of a particularly good sunbeam. Surely this would be enough, but...   
  
The Medic's mouth went dry as he let the beam and his gaze roam over the Russian's body. His arms- up one, then down the other, his chest- those amazing pectorals, letting the beam slip lower- between the heat of the sauna and the vapors of the Medigun, the Medic's heart was hammering, and dangerous things were starting to happen inside him.   
  
"Herr Heavy- your back-" he choked out.   
  
"Eh-?" Heavy looked over his own shoulder for a moment.   
  
"Turn-" the Medic cleared his throat. "Turn your back to me, Herr, so that I can treat them," see, please, let me see, the Medic thought. The blue vapor of the Medigun beam was building up in the rafters of the sauna, mingling with the steam. The Medic bit the inside of his cheek sharply to counteract the pleasure that was trying to build in his groin.   
  
For the first time since reminding himself that the Medic was modest, Heavy looked over at him. ...And wondered if he might have been wrong about that first assumption. Medic stood like a captain on the deck of his own ship, bare feet planted apart on the wooden floor, a study in feverish intensity and shadow-masked everyday detail. The silver at his temples picked up the color best, highlighted vapor-blue on the right side, fire-red in the left. Heavy's back felt -fine-, especially after a Medigun burst of that duration, but whatever Medic meant by 'them'... Heavy stood and turned, hands at his sides again, watching what Medic would do out of the corner of his eye.   
  
Trapezius, deltoid, latissimus dorsi... gluteals. The muscles of the back were what the Medic was asking to see, the concept that was disordering his grasp of English. His chest tightened as he trailed the Medigun beam down the big man's amazing muscles. Each of them stood out in clear definition, like an anatomical diagram. The Medic concentrated for a moment on the muscles in his own face, keeping them rigid, unmoving. Once they were locked in place, he resumed looking at the Heavy's broad back.   
  
Medic looked like a statue, the strain on his usually composed face locked into a mask of severe exhilaration as the Medigun's beam flowed between them, around them as if the swirling blue current in the air had taken on a life, a gravity of its own that would not let go. No. It was Medic who would not let this go. Medic, who taken an everyday tool, and made it magnificent. It was Wonderful. It was... strangely funny, Heavy thought, his shoulders beginning to shake. It was something to see before you die.   
  
The Medic inhaled a deep lungful of the vapour-mixed steam. The Übercharge meter on the barrel of the Medigun was almost full. The Heavy was laughing, as he did on the battlefield. The Medic caressed the button that would deploy the charge, waiting for that hit of invulnerability, the all-encompassing glow that would unite him with his Heavy. He felt light-headed; he never felt this way in battle, but the temptation to laugh along with the Heavy was strong.   
  
Heavy -remembered- that the Übercharge existed a split-second before Medic deployed it. He'd forgotten it. Forgotten what came AFTER the feeling he was already suffused with, and it was -hilarious-. He turned, and dropped a hand on Medic's shoulder as the two of them turned to blue, molten steel together. The force of his hand- -and he'd forgotten to hold back much- -would not hurt the Doktor now. NOTHING could hurt his Doktor now, they were INVINCIBLE!!!   
  
The solid impact of the Heavy's hand was enough to buckle the Medic's knees, but it didn't hurt- nothing hurt at all. He panted, something between a groan and a laugh, and shrugged off the heavy Medigun apparatus. His towel slipped, too, but he didn't notice it, didn't notice anything other than the Heavy's handsome face bathed in moonlit blue.   
  
Heavy seized the unsteady Medic by his upper arms as the charge faded, crackling between them, and lifted the other man up. ...Would have picked him up Medipack and all, had Medic still been wearing one. He drew his Doktor in close and hugged him, prolonging the feeling that the Übercharge had left in his veins. Celebrating it, still chuckling softly in the suddenly restored dimness of the room.   
  
Dazed, his feet not touching the floor, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to wrap his arms around the Heavy, hold him tightly, listen to his heart pounding underneath his broad chest. The rush of the charge faded, leaving a craving in its wake- the Medic looked up into the Heavy's eyes just as he realized that he had an erection, and it was pressed firmly against the big man's belly.   
  
Heavy felt the room dip slightly and turn to the right. It happened in saunas sometimes... Sitting down was probably a good idea, but Medic was attached to him like an affectionate starfish, and it would be just -rude- to drop him... With this reasonable thought in mind, Heavy scooped his Doktor up the rest of the way and sat down on the lowest tier of wooden benches behind them, the Medic facing him and sitting across his lap. It made perfect sense. where else was he going to put the man, and... his Doktor finally looked so -happy-... Heavy had never seen that before.   
  
Erection... the Medic had an erection. Something about that was supposed to be bad, supposed to be wrong... but he couldn't think why, not just now. The Heavy's body was so solid against him, it was so warm in here after the bitter cold outside, his head was still singing with the Medigun vapors wafting around them. Nothing could possibly be wrong. He put a hand on the Heavy's shoulder, savoring the firmness of the muscle, and gazed into the bigger man's eyes.   
"Das ist wunderbar..."   
  
Heavy had picked up some German from working with Medic, and that last word was something Medic usually said when they were standing boot-deep in gibbs after clearing a well-defended point or crowded room. The kind of word that needed a wolfish smile behind it, and a glint of harsh, reflected light at the corner of his Doktor's aristocratic, wire-rimmed glasses. Medic's voice was softer as he used it now, a weapon of wonder instead of a carnivore's satisfaction.   
"-Da," Heavy nodded simply, then continued in Russian, "-[I am glad you are here, my friend. I am glad you are happy.]"   
  
The texture of the Heavy's skin was fascinating. Softer than he would have thought, his shoulders and biceps so smooth, his stubbled chin so intricately rough... the Medic could trace every muscle, every tendon, like a warm, breathing anatomical diagram. He ran a fingertip down the sternocleidomastoid, trailing from the Heavy's jaw to his collarbone.   
  
Heavy allowed the Medic to play with his face without comment. It felt good... and, he'd begun to realize, so did the Medic himself. -Which meant nothing of course. It was warm, they were happy, and there were no attractive women within two hundred kilometers. Medic's fingers traced across the top of his shoulder like a child measuring the distance on a map to China. Medic had done this... measuring his hands. Not as much the day he'd let the Doktor measure his arms and shoulders- -though the backrub afterwards had been wonderful- -but still this fascination, this joy in shapes...   
  
"Schön... wunderschön," the Medic murmured, trailing his fingers down the Heavy's chest. He wasn't sure if the throbbing in his fingertips was the big Russian's heartbeat or his own, so he lowered his ear to the other man's chest and listened to the strong rhythm within. "I hope to see your heart someday," he mentioned, as if in passing.   
  
It was an unusual comment, but Medic did like measuring things. "Maybe... you have..." Heavy said, thoughtfully, watching a kind of unconscious warmth he wanted very much not to disturb play across the Doktor's face. And it would make sense... they got blown to bits on a regular basis, after all.   
  
"Nein, nein, on the battle field, I cannot concentrate, cannot get a close look at your wonderful organs. They are a mess when I get to see them, all torn and shredded. I would like to see them entire, carefully open your living chest to watch the grand machine of your body..." The Medic gazed up at the Heavy, eyes starry and glasses sliding low on his nose as he discussed vivisection.   
  
At another time, away from the sleepy warmth of the sauna and the closeness of this moment, Heavy would have found the Medic's words deeply disturbing. Now he thought only of how safe he would feel, if he became ill in some way pills couldn't touch, and THIS Doktor was the one operating on him to make him well. That didn't seem to be the point, though... Heavy's thoughts didn't seem to want to focus on the subject, not when... Medic felt so good there, listening reverently, curled against him as if he...   
  
He -likes- me, Heavy realized, surprised. He came out to the sauna in the snow with his Medipack on, and now he's...   
  
I am such a fool, Heavy thought, smiling.   
  
...But Medic had asked something, hadn't he, something about wanting to see his heart so he could measure it...? "Take picture-" Heavy struggled for the word X-ray, and couldn't find it, "-through chest. Picture does not go bad like fish."   
  
"Still, too still," the Medic crooned. "If we had a fluoroscope on base... but we have not, and even then I would not be able to see the glorious scarlet of your blood, the tender rose of your lungs, the deep purple-red of your heart..." The Medic lost his train of thought as his fingers trailed off, following the blue trails of veins below the skin of the huge man's chest. "Schön," he sighed again. The corner of his mouth was resting against the Heavy's pectoral. Without thinking, he kissed his teammate's bare chest.   
  
Heavy wasn't sure how he felt about Medic's choice of topics to compliment him on. He couldn't follow it, though, the sentences were too long, and Heavy didn't understand the (presumably medical) terms that had just been used. It didn't matter, though. The slightly disturbing trail of words seemed to be secondary to Medic's enjoyment of his body in ONE piece, anyway.   
  
But he'd been right. Medic -kissed- him, shyly as any girl. The Doktor was so high-strung, so eager to help out on the battlefield, and so shy once he'd left it. He covered well, with starchy Germanic pride, and the aloofness of a well-educated man who had actually paid his dues... Such courage, to come here today, and... Courage like that should be rewarded. Heavy brought his hands up, cupping one low around the back of the doctor's skull, and stroking Medic's cheek slowly with the thumb of the other.   
  
Schon. He'd have to look that up.   
  
Dizzy from the Medigun fumes, from the heat, from the proximity of his favorite teammate, the Medic felt as if he was falling backward, spinning. He gasped for breath, gazing up into the Heavy's eyes again. The soothing vapors of the Medigun were still at work on him, but the yawing in his stomach felt like something else, like guilt, like the sensation just before you jerk awake out of a dream.   
  
Heavy kissed him. It was the only reasonable thing to do, with Medic looking up at him like that. Flushed. Searching. Like the entire world had denied him answers that Heavy might possibly know. Heavy didn't press hard, or try to deepen the kiss from there. He couldn't remember a -thing- about German kissing etiquette at the moment, and he knew from the reactions he'd gotten on his first job outside Russia that- ...that- .......! ...wow.   
  
The Heavy drew back with a slight smile, and watched his Doktor's face.   
  
Despite the heat, the kiss raised gooseflesh on the Medic's arms and thighs. The Heavy's lips on his own drew forth a groan from the depths of his soul. It startled him, and then he really was falling, to land with a thump on the sauna's floorboards as he pushed himself away from his teammate. Teammate- his head cleared, down in the cooler air near the floor. He was a mercenary, a field medic, a team member- no part of anything that involved embracing, kissing. He stood up, wobbling somewhat, but forced himself upright. He looked at the handsome man still sitting on the sauna bench, and briefly considered sprinting out beyond Respawn range to shoot himself.   
  
Heavy blinked stupidly for a split-second, and then it sunk in that he'd just DROPPED his Doktor. His eyes widened, and he was moving. Faster, unfortunately, than he had the coordination for, and he overbalanced. His hands instantly went forward to catch himself, fingers apart, and then he realized what (who) his right hand would be landing ON, and jerked it back. What happened then was embarrassing, hard on Heavy's left shoulder as it took most of the impact, and incredibly loud. But he hadn't landed on the Doktor. Who was NAKED- why hadn't he noticed that before...?   
  
The Medic scrabbled out of the way, leaning against the splintery wooden wall. He was dazed, dizzy from standing up too fast, nauseated by what he had almost done. He needed fresh air, the security of his white-tiled laboratory, far away from the danger he'd put them both in. As he wrenched open the sauna door and bolted into the snow, he hoped that the Heavy wasn't hurt, but he couldn't stay in the sauna another second. The cold air stung his skin, but he barely noticed that he was naked as he made for the base. As soon as he was inside, he would pretend that this had never happened.   
  
Heavy hadn't MEANT to fall so dramatically, but he'd been trying to keep the Doktor from hitting the floor, and lost his balance, and- -the sauna door banged shut with a hollow finality before Heavy had time to collect his thoughts and apologize. He sighed deeply instead, sitting up and rubbing his forehead with one hand. Slowly, things began to occur to him.   
  
The first was that Medic was probably afraid of him now. The wonderful openness, the willingness to explore of a few minutes ago may have been an extremely fragile thing, and after being faced with the possibility of Heavy FLATTENING him, well... that would probably be a turnoff. Heavy swore mentally, in Russian.   
  
The second thing he realized was that the Doktor had left his Medigun behind on the floor. It lay there like a coiled steel serpent, the end of the nozzle glinting faintly in a crack of daylight from the badly-sealed outer door. Heavy moved his shoulder experimentally, teeth set. It hurt, but nothing felt broken. He glanced back at the Medigun thoughtfully for a moment, then discarded the idea. His shoulder felt more bruised than injured, anyway. ...And this gun was the Doktor's.   
  
The Medic hit the door to the base full-force, slamming against it until he remembered that it pulled open. He wrenched at it, staggered inside, and slammed it shut behind him. Only then did he realize that he was still utterly naked, flushed and panting, and that his teammates were advancing down the hall toward him.   
  
Demoman and Soldier caught sight of him first. Scout, halfway through a story and a bit behind them, kept talking.   
  
"-So then she's like, yeah, c'mon ovah, we gotta hot tub, an' my sistah- WHOLPH! -Tha fuck, man...?" Scout nearly ran into Demo's brawny shoulder in mid-sentence, then rubbernecked between the two older men to see what the holdup was. Medic stared back at the trio, hyperventilating like a trapped woodland creature.   
  
"EXPLAIN YOURSELF, PRIVATE!" the Soldier barked reasonably.   
  
"D'ye think there was a yeti?" Demo chimed in, hopefully.   
  
The Medic snapped upright, gritting his teeth, and seized his clothing. "I do not have to explain myself to you!" His defiance was somewhat spoilt by the fact that his glasses were askew, and the whites of his eyes were still visible all the way around the irises. He jammed on his shirt and trousers.   
  
The mere mention of having something as big and worthwhile to fight as a yeti was enough for the Soldier, and he charged past Medic through the outer door with a ringing war cry, the abused door-latch finally giving way before his zeal.   
  
Heavy plodded out of the sauna with Medic's towel over one arm restaurant-style, and the Medigun tucked neatly under his other arm. He heard a rising insensate bellow, and a crash as the outer door to the base burst outwards.   
  
This was definitely NOT, Heavy thought for the second time in as many hours, a good day.   
  
Soldier caught sight of Heavy emerging from the sauna amidst a puff of faintly bluish steam, and slowed down accordingly. Demo was behind him now, and Scout was gawking out the open door with a increasingly delighted grin.   
  
"Yo fatass! I dunno what kinda kinky shit you fruits jus' tried in theah, but the Doc does NOT look impressed, man..."   
  
"Och, ye can't pay fer this..." Demoman grinned, folding his arms.   
  
The Medic's guts froze solid; all the heat of the sauna (the heat of the Heavy's body against his own) had fled, and he felt certain he would never be warm again. He marched toward his room, not daring to look back.   
  
"Hey Doc," Scout began, smirking back over his shoulder, "-what did ol' snack-pack... -H'lo? ...Doc?" but the Medic was gone.   
  
Outside, Heavy set his jaw grimly and walked past the Soldier and Demoman.   
  
"Did somethinn' naught go accordin' tae plan?" Demo inquired.   
  
"This is business of yours?" Heavy asked dryly, without raising his voice.   
  
"Nawt a bit," Demo admitted, "-but ye have laid a few bets tae rest!" ...He elbowed the Soldier significantly.   
  
"Goddamn communists..." Soldier muttered, fishing around in the inner workings of his helmet for a twenty.


	8. HANGOVER NIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was all Teratomarty.

The Medic thought that he must have lost his mind. He was dizzy with panic as he thought about what had happened in the sauna. Drugged with the fumes of the Medigun, he had climbed all over the Heavy, touched the big man’s soft, tough skin... kissed him! The Medic wedged a chair under the bunk’s door handle. No-one would see his face burning as he thought about that kiss.   
  
In the privacy of his room, the Medic abandoned his upright bearing and collapsed to his bed, arms wrapped around himself. How could he have done that? How could he have allowed his sickness to overwhelm his will? His weakness alone was enough to shame him, but the fact that he had been seen would be the end of him. He would be dishonorably discharged, drummed out of BLU, lose the right to practice medicine of any kind. With his unnatural inclinations on record, he would be lucky to get a job emptying bedpans in Siberia.   
  
Before that, though, before he was deported as an undesirable alien... he would have to face his team. He already knew the tenor of the Scout’s mockery, so loud and thorough that the Spy would hardly find it necessary to inform on him. He shuddered to imagine revulsion twisting the Engineer’s good-natured face as he learnt of the Medic’s perversion. The Sniper’s quiet professionalism would prevent him from saying anything, but the man could project his disgust with an almost tangible force. Who knew what the Pyro thought, and with any luck the Demoman would be too drunk to remember, or care. The Soldier would probably just kill him repeatedly with his shovel until he was dismissed; God knew the psychotic American barely needed an incentive other than the Medic’s nationality to want him dead.   
  
The Heavy... the Medic had been avoiding thinking about what the Russian’s response would be once he sobered up. Mazed by concentrated Medigun vapors, the big man had allowed the Medic to take unwholesome liberties with his person. Was it too much to hope that he would forget what had happened, would think it was only a dream? Almost certainly, yes. The Medic was now sober, and he remembered each movement, each touch with aching clarity. How could he have been so foolish? He shuddered with self-loathing, with fear, with the memory of the ice-water baths that should have cured him.   
  
The Heavy was a real man, a natural man, the most perfect specimen of a warrior that the Medic had ever seen. He would be justly repulsed when he realized what the Medic had attempted, had craved. The image of his huge fists, knuckles like walls of rock, flashed through the Medic’s mind. The Soldier would not get a chance to beat him to death after all, not unless he waited until the Heavy was tired. Beating the Medic to death would be the Heavy’s right.   
  
Before disgracing himself, the Medic had been permitted to measure the Heavy’s hands. He knew, to the millimeter, the dimensions of the fists that would descend on him. When he envisioned his teammate, the man was still naked to the waist, as he had been in the sauna, muscles rippling. The Medic wondered how those sledgehammer fists would feel. He had been beaten before, of course, most recently by the RED Heavy. However, it had been in the line of duty, dispassionately, as it were, without the righteous fury that the BLU Heavy would doubtless feel. Compared to his teammate’s vengeance, the RED Heavy’s kill had been mercifully quick.   
  
The Medic imagined the BLU Heavy’s titanic fists hammering down on him, each blow ringing through his body, powered by his teammate’s disgust. Cracked ribs would finally give his heart a reason to ache, shattered cheekbones would excuse his tears. His weakness would be a moot point if his arms and legs were broken. Body and soul could be laid bare, all inadequacies exposed, but it would not matter if he was bleeding from his mouth, nose and ears.   
  
Another death presented itself. During the Reich, suspected homosexuals had been punished by “giving them what they wanted-” violent, sodomitic rape. He had once tried to sew up a young soldier who had been so treated- hands shaking, he had told himself that it was nothing to do with him, just another operation. The war had certainly given him plenty of experience resectioning torn bowels. However, in all bowel operations, he’d known the patients’ fate almost before he started. Too much blood loss, too much filth; if the patient did not bleed out on the operating table, sepsis would claim him soon. Medic had over-administered anesthesia, and told himself it was the dosage mistake of a tired man.   
  
No-one on base would overdose him if the Heavy exacted his revenge in that way. He imagined his huge teammate shoving him down, forcing his legs apart, one hand on his throat to keep him still. Would the Heavy strangle him if he screamed? He would try not to, to preserve what remained of his dignity to the bitter end. He would lie still as the Heavy drove into him, literally tearing him apart from the inside.   
  
Could this truly be what he wanted? The thought ignited a sort of nauseous pleasure inside him. He was hard. What kind of a pervert was he? The kind who craved the violent touch of another man, quod erat demonstratum. He slid one hand to his fly, wrapped the other around his throat.   
  
In his mind, the rape and the beating merged. Tears slid from his eyes as he imagined the Heavy pinning him to rough floorboards, crushing him, tearing into him. He felt the heat of the Russian’s breath, the immovable weight of his hands. The Medic feared the shame of exposure, the pain of violation, the loss of his teammate’s friendship, dreaded it so badly that he wished it were happening already. If this was real, if the Heavy were already savaging him, the worst would be almost over.   
  
The German tore at his own clothing, imagining that it was the Heavy popping the buttons off his starched shirt, wrenching at the fly of his wool pants. He would not be gentle- the Medic seized his cock, yanking it roughly to one side as if his attacker wanted to get it out of the way. He was still wearing his gloves, had jammed them on like armour as he fled his teammates’ mockery. Without so much as spit for lubrication, he jammed two rubber-coated fingers into himself. His body seized up against the burning, tearing pain, but he stroked his cock harshly- this was how it would feel as the Heavy had him. If that was what his perverted soul desired, he had better learn to enjoy it. He sobbed with pain and the fear of pain. Despising his weakness, he drove his fingers deeper.   
  
A strangled moan slipped out of his mouth as he did so. This slight exhalation eased something inside him, releasing a bolt of pleasure. A distant, horrified part of his mind babbled that it must be true- he craved this pain, this abuse, would accept sodomy. He fucked himself, twisting his own cock cruelly as tears ran down his cheeks. The pain was intense, but a sick, fearsome pleasure was building underneath it. He couldn’t breathe. He imagined the Heavy, grunting and sweating on top of him, face twisted in unholy ecstasy as he spilled his seed. He had to bite his lips to keep from groaning, from screaming. This was what it would feel like when he was beaten and raped, punished and forgiven. It would kill him, it would cure him. His limbs shook, his back arched as if he had been electrocuted. The contradictions rushed together and overwhelmed him as he came.   
  
Lying in his soiled sheets, the Medic stared upward in dazed peace. Night fell early and hard on the Coldfront base, and his room was entirely dark. The German didn’t have the strength to get up and change his bed. He was only barely able to peel off his remaining clothing and shove it out onto the floor. He imagined the Heavy carrying his broken body out behind the base to dump it. The big man was still shirtless in his fantasy. The Medic had read that dying in the snow was paradoxically warm and peaceful. This thought soothed him as he fell asleep.


	9. CHECK.

Heavy turned his face up into the lukewarm spray of the shower, and sighed.   
He was angry.   
Angry in that way that seemed to live beneath the surface and never really find definition.   
  
He couldn’t be mad at his teammates. If he’d seen something that (outwardly) comical on the way out to the sauna, he’d have laughed until he cried too.   
He couldn’t be mad at himself. He hadn’t realized the medigun vapors were building up in the small, ramshackle building, and he hadn’t realized how much that was lowering the Doktor’s barriers.   
Lowering. That was the point.   
What medic had shown him was real, unstudied. -Natural.   
He couldn’t be angry at his Doktor for that.   
But still…   
  
Heavy finished rinsing off, took a clean towel from a hook on the wall just past the shower, and padded on wet feet across the chilly concrete floor to his locker.   
  
-   
  
Heavy paused, then knocked.   
No answer.   
Against his better judgment, he tried the doorknob, and found it turned easily.   
The lights in the infirmary were off, the exam tables cold.   
Heavy switched the lights on, and felt very much the intruder.   
  
The Doktor hadn’t been here since he’d seen him in the sauna, and only the steadily blinking green ‘charging’ light on the wall by the door of the Medigun room moved. Heavy had put the cells in there himself an hour ago, looking carefully at how the fittings came together before carefully connecting them. There was doubtless more to caring for the Doktor’s Medigun than that, but he didn’t know the rest, and the last thing he wanted to do now was to prove his clumsiness beyond doubt.   
  
Heavy knew he was not really a clumsy man. He couldn’t afford to be, or those around him would be hurt, he’d learned that in primary school.   
He hadn’t –actually- fallen on his Doktor. It had been close though, and he could well imagine how it could’ve spooked the man. The Medic was spare. Precise… Heavy’s eyes ranged over the long needles of the Blutsauger, packed identical and gleaming into their round ammunition drum…   
Yet how easily any of those darts could be damaged if they were bent.   
  
-   
  
Check.   
Heavy turned the page, and read what Gregoriovitch’s next move had been.   
He shifted a knight across the board accordingly, tapping each square traveled lightly with the bottom edge of the piece before setting it down. The checkmate was broken. Heavy studied the board again. Thinking of what he would do in Anatoli’s position to trap his enemy’s king again, but his attention kept straying back to the white bishop and rook.   
They were sitting at different sides of the board, but between them, they could attack almost any black piece that Gregoriovitch moved.   
  
Heavy thought for a moment, then put his book down with a spoon to mark his place, and switched the bishop for a pawn.   
Again, he studied the board.   
Now the way was open, and Anatoli was properly screwed. Gregoriovitch would have him in three moves. Heavy turned the white bishop between his fingers, then placed it back on the same square as the pawn he’d exchanged it with. The tall, pointed piece and the smaller, squat one stood side by side.   
Faith, and fear.   
  
Fear could change a man, even if he didn’t consciously choose to let it.   
The sudden flinch at the sound of an explosion. The stomach that clenched at the thought of breakfast, because finishing the meal meant another patrol.   
The scout whose hands would shake as he raised his brother’s dog tags to his lips before each battle…   
Heavy had seen these things before.   
He left the white Bishop and pawn together on their shared square, and opened his book to the next move.


	10. BAD DAY ON THE BATTLEFIELD

The Medic’s alarm clock sounded well before sunrise. As soon as he silenced it, he knew that he was in a state of blissful ignorance. A memory of something terrible that had happened yesterday was lurking just beyond his sight. He willed it away, even as it broke upon him.   
  
The Heavy, in the sauna. The Scout’s laughter, the Soldier’s demand for an explanation. The filthy secret he had kept for decades was out. He stared bleakly at the ceiling. Today could only bring dishonor; the best he could hope for was death. However, the only way to be more detestable than he already was would be to cower in his bed. He got up and headed for the infirmary’s solo shower, not bothering to pick up the clothes on the floor or change his white-stained sheets.   
  
After he dressed, the Medic went to the kitchen. His professional life was over, but he had breakfast duty. He made oatmeal. On another day, he might have fortified it with raisins or molasses; today, it was just plain and grey. He started some coffee and poured a glass of the metallic-tasting tinned orange juice. He drank it as if it were medicine, then sat down and mechanically ate his breakfast.   
  
The rest of the team began to arrive in the kitchen.   
"What tha fuck, man?" the Scout wanted to know, studying a glutenous spoonful of what appeared to be rehydrated wall-plaster, "-where's tha sugar in this? Yo Pyro, it's glazed awready, pass the sugar."   
  
"Hmrr?" The Pyro looked up with a surprised and somewhat innocent head tilt, temporarily pausing the process of torch-caramelizing a layer of sugar onto its oatmeal.   
  
"Well, it's food," the Sniper decided, digging in with the cheerful philosophy of someone who appreciates his food not trying to escape under it's own power.   
  
Demo shuffled into the mess hall looking as though he hated both beast and man this morning, but perked up the moment he took a bite. "Naught bad, there..." He stirred in a quantity of butter, added a few healthy shakes from the saltshaker, and set to.   
  
Heavy arrived later then usual. Spy crept past him looking hollow-eyed, struggled with the gleaming coffee-machine in the corner until it provided him with a tiny cup of very strong coffee, and muttered something darkly about how ‘this was made in Nantes,’ and 'distilled race-horse piss'.   
  
Medic sat in his chair, ramrod straight, eyes straight ahead or fixed on his bowl. He did not dare to hope that yesterday's events had been forgotten. He let his eyes slide over to the Spy, but the man was hunched over his coffee and apparently oblivious to the world. Perhaps the Scout had not relayed his shameful news? The Medic's eyes flicked to the skinny runner's face.   
  
Mercifully, the Scout wasn't looking in the Medic's direction, but he could feel eyes on him just as well as the next highly paranoid mercenary. The Scout looked over at the Medic. The Medic stared back like a man facing a firing squad. Scout dissolved in a fit of snickering.   
  
Halfway down the table, Heavy watched the exchange, his jaw tight. This was hurting the Doktor. Badly. If he interceded now though, this would take ten times longer to die...   
  
Do not, the Medic thought. Do not look over at the Heavy. He was afraid of what he would see, if he did. Hate? Disgust? A barely-controlled rage? The Medic knew that his teammate wasn't at his best until he'd had breakfast, and momentarily regretted not having put anything better in the oatmeal. He clenched his teeth and cursed his tender feelings toward the man. He looked at the Demoman instead- the Scot was tucking into the horrible gruel with every sign of enjoyment.   
  
The oatmeal was not the Doktor's best effort, Heavy admitted to himself. It tasted like exhaustion, like the way Medic looked when they'd had to respawn a fourth time to attack the same point in the RED defenses. Ground down. Functional.   
  
The Engineer showed up late to breakfast, a half-finished cup of coffee cunningly balanced with the clipboard of handwritten notes in his hands. "Mornin'," he said, glancing up from it.   
  
Most of the team mumbled some variation on the theme of "good morning," with the exception of the Spy, who issued a Gallic grunt, and the Medic, who saw nothing good about the morning whatsoever. He nodded curtly to the Texan and stood. Moving robotically, he cleared his dishes and began running hot water in the wash sink. It was the Pyro's turn to wash the dishes, so there was no need to mix in any cold. His spoon clattered against the rim of his bowl as he placed them in the sink, betraying the tremor in his hands.   
  
The Engineer looked over at the sound, frowning slightly behind his welding goggles. Adjusted as his eyes were to the low light behind those deeply polarized lenses, Medic's white coat still stood out almost as much as the overhead lights did, and the painfully tense set of the German's frame looked worryingly brittle.   
  
As people began to get up and mill around prior to leaving, Heavy abruptly found himself looking down at the Scout.   
  
"Didja make it up to 'im or what?" the Scout grinned.   
  
Heavy momentarily imagined what it would look and sound like to slap Scout's face down onto the tabletop hard enough to crush all the bones in the boy's nose and jaw. His large hands closed into fists at his sides with a faint squeak of compressing glove-leather instead.   
"Such concern you have, leetle Scout. I vill remember this."   
  
The Medic looked over when the Scout spoke, and his eyes met Heavy's. His blank expression flickered, pure terror flashing out from beneath as he looked at his giant teammate. The Medic's lips parted, but he didn't know what he could possibly say. Instead, he slammed his teeth closed and turned on his heel. At least he had the pretext of gearing up for battle. Apparently, he would not be dismissed before the day's fight. Did the Administrator know yet? The uncertainty was agony.   
  
Something in the big Russian's demeanor made the Scout uneasy, but the Heavy's crestfallen look as the Medic bolted at the sight of him was well worth it.   
  
"THAT's a 'no'--" the Scout decided loudly, and darted out of range himself.   
  
The Heavy sighed, and joined the rest of his teammates as they filed out to the weapons lockers. No-one jostled him today, Heavy noticed. The closest contact was when the edge of the Sniper's sleeve brushed past his arm. Usually, he was lucky if the Scout wasn't trying to jump or leap-frog OVER him. As a boy Heavy had seen a handful of American films, and one of them had featured Boris Karloff as the Frankenstein Monster. He remembered it now.   
  
In the infirmary, the Medic picked up his gear, and was momentarily irritated by the fact that he hadn't put it away properly. Then he realized that he didn't remember putting it away at all. He didn't remember carrying it out of the sauna. Someone else must have- who? He didn't know who else would do it, or why, and this worried him. However, he pushed the thought out of his mind. He had to get to formation, couldn't afford to waste time. He hefted the Medigun, but equipped himself with his Bonesaw and Blutsauger, as well. If today was going to be the last day of his life, he was going to take some of those RED schweinhunds with him, as well. He wondered if he could find some way to disable the respawn locators that let they system sweep up and re-integrate the gibs. This in mind, he strode out to join his team.   
  
It was with no little relief that Heavy saw the Doctor enter the Respawn room at last, and take up his place in the pre-battle formation. He wasn't actually standing behind behind the Heavy today, but he was near enough to his elbow to make the thought count. ...Maybe, Heavy thought, just maybe, this would be all right.   
  
"You are ready, Doktor?" Heavy asked conversationally, with an optimism he didn't yet trust.   
  
"Of course," Medic said icily. He was gritting his teeth, trying not to shake. The big man was standing right there, normal as ever- possibly he had forgotten? How dazed by the Medigun fumes had he been? But then, who had put the Medigun away? Did he remember what had happened? The Scout certainly did. The Medic's hand clenched on the handle of his Bonesaw.   
  
The Bonesaw, Heavy wondered, -now-? He wasn't about to break what was still clearly a fragile truce between them to quibble over weapons... but he was concerned. The starting bell sounded. Heavy made a mental note to keep a sharp eye out for sandviches today, and started forwards.   
  
"Horrido!" The Medic sprinted out onto the field, leaving the Heavy far behind in favor of running serpentine at the advancing REDs. He met the RED Scout coming the other way first, and slashed viciously at the young runner's neck. The Scout had been fumbling with his scattergun, but raised a hand to ward off the blow. The heavy blade dug into the boy's ulna, snapping it as the Medic twisted it free. The German grinned in monstrous satisfaction at his young enemy's scream of pain, then silenced it by slicing his throat.   
  
  
Heavy knew in that moment, as the arc of the RED Scout's blood flew up, that it was going to be a long, long day. He'd started running with the Medic instinctively, but even with the Doktor's pauses to carve up his enemies, he was already outrunning his Heavy. Seeing he would be more valuable from a short distance, Heavy stopped with his shoulder to the corner of a concrete building, and laid down a punishing line of covering fire for the Medic's murderous rampage.   
  
The Medic lunged at the next available member of the RED team, the Demoman. Screaming abuse in German, he slashed at the man's face. He was instantly clubbed with a bottle for his efforts, but found an opening to hack at the Scot's arm. Bleeding and bristling with broken glass, the Medic rounded on the RED Heavy. The sight of the huge body-armored silhouette against the sky, so similar to the BLU Heavy, made the Medic stop in his tracks. This was all the time the RED needed to spin up his Minigun and reduce the Medic to a bloody mist.   
  
Medic had been moving, swift and erratic, seeming not to feel any of the damage that streamed red down the front and side of his long white coat. He had fought like a man possessed, but Heavy had managed to keep up covering fire for him- -until to his horror the Doktor darted, ferret-like, out of sight around a broken wall. Heavy scrambled for a new position, boots sinking deep in the wind-piled snow, but the RED Soldier had been waiting for him. There was the impact in his side like a steel giant's fist, then tearing, and the sudden, impossible heat blasting up across his face as the RED Soldier's crit-rocket exploded in his chest.   
  
The white light of the Respawn room burned the Medic's eyes. As he fought down a wave of nausea, he realized that he was disappointed that he was still alive. He jerked himself upright, his eyes finally adjusting enough to see the Heavy, Pyro and Demoman- they must have respawned in the same wave. Ignoring the ringing in his ears, he made to rejoin the battle.   
  
And so it went, down through the cold of morning and into a long and bloody afternoon. Heavy no longer followed the Doktor with the same desperate pace of the day's first charge, but he was never far away. Heavy began using the Medic for bait in a way, flanking his unhinged teammate at a modest distance, and cutting down any RED who made a play for the Doktor's back while the German was attacking another target. Without the Medic's sharp eyes guarding the Heavy’s back however, the RED Spy made it his personal mission to send the Heavy through respawn as many times as possible. In one chilling incident, Heavy had Spy-checked the Medic coming at him, only to find that it was in fact HIS Doktor, and that the Sniper creeping up on Heavy's left was his intended target.   
  
  
Blood glazed the snow near the outdoor control point, lingering body-heat momentarily melting it in patches, and re-freezing it as a solid crust. Time and again, boots broke through it. Time and again the BLUs were driven back, hamstrung by effective absence of the effective Medic on whom they'd slowly learned to rely...   
  
After the Administrator's last, ringing "You have failed!" the BLU Engineer rebuilt his dispenser in the common room, and the rest of the team grouped around it. They had all noticed that the Medic wasn't doing much in the way of healing, that day. The Medic staggered in, but took a seat too far from the dispenser to absorb any of its healing rays. He did not want to deprive his more worthy teammates. He thought briefly of inhaling some fumes from his own Medigun, but recoiled instantly. Never, never again. The Soldier was ranting, but his screams about ignominious defeat went didn't penetrate the Medic's mental fog until the American rounded on him and shouted,   
"You have dishonoured this entire unit!"   
  
The Medic's eyes snapped open as if he had been stung.   
"Schweinhund!" he shouted. "How dare you?" He grabbed at where the handle of his Bonesaw would be, but he had already shucked his weapons, leaving them carelessly on the floor.   
  
"How dare I?" the Soldier mocked in a sing-song voice at the approximate decibel level of a jet engine. "Each and every one of us has a duty on this battlefield! Unlike some people, you USUALLY stay awake during the briefings and seemed to have grasped that simple concept! What in God's name was that, out there today? Your duty is to stand behind the Russki and make him a goddamn invincible tank! Running screaming at the enemy and ripping them apart with my bare hands is MY duty! Do I make myself clear?!"   
  
For a moment, Heavy had the sinking feeling that he would be called on to physically restrain the enraged Medic, but the latter end of the Soldier's tirade seemed to have taken some of the wind out of the Doktor's sails. He stood, blood-spattered white shoulders rising and falling as he tried to contain his breathing, staring at the lowered rim of the Soldier's well-battered helmet as if he didn't know whether to attack the man or start weeping. The dark curl that drooped in disarray across the Medic's forehead trembled slightly at the end.   
  
"I-" the Medic spat, then found himself at a loss. There was no rebuttal, nothing he could say to excuse his dereliction of duty. He had been found out, they all knew- he briefly planned to attack the Soldier and get killed so that he would at least fail to respawn until the battle resumed the following morning. Belatedly, he realized that his dereliction of duty was the only topic that the Soldier had brought up. Nothing about his inappropriate behaviour the night before, nothing about drumming him out of BLU. Indeed, he seemed to be assuming that the Medic would resume his normal role in upcoming battles. The Medic pulled himself upright, closing his eyes and breathing in through his nose. "It vas inexcusable." His voice sounded thick, his accent heavy with the effort of suppressing the tremor he felt.   
  
  
"Whaddya know," the Scout cocked his head, watching with fascination out of the eye that wasn't swollen shut, "-wunna Soldier-boy's speeches actually DID somethin'..."   
  
The Spy, once-immaculate suit coat still trailing flakes of ash whenever he moved, elbowed the Scout pointedly, the expression beneath his balaclava set and pleasant.   
  
The Heavy had never been prouder of his team as at this ground-down, ambivalent, and generally annoyed moment. He put a comradely hand on the Medic's shoulder.   
  
"Is vun day. Tomorrow ve work together again, da?"   
  
The Medic flinched under his teammate's huge hand. At this moment he wanted nothing more than to believe that he was forgiven, to slump against the Heavy's broad chest and weep. Not possible. He was living on borrowed time. He ground his teeth together and simply said, "Ja, tomorrow," before turning to leave.   
  
Heavy watched the Medic leave decisively for the second time that day, a small frown settling in deep between his eyebrows.   
  
"Eeey you!" the Demoman, if anything wobblier than usual, shoved his way in between the Pyro and Soldier to stand breathing fumes up at the still-immobile Heavy. "Gittafter 'im yeh grreeat lump, it's yoor fault, yeh knoo?" Demo shoved his bottle of Scrumpy in Heavy's chest for emphasis.   
  
"'E's right," the Sniper spoke up from the beneath the shadow of his hat, turning a long slashing cut on his forearm towards the dispenser as if warming himself by a fire, "Nobody gives a damn what y' get up to after hours, just go make noice, an' get that fella back on the field in 'is right frame a'mind, yeah?"   
  
The Medic swept back along the hall, collecting his weaponry. He would have to reload the serum in the Übersaw, restock the syringes in the Blutsauger. When he got to the infirmary, his hands were shaking too badly to handle the needles. He sat down at his desk, head in his hands.   
  
Heavy looked from one teammate to another. They looked back at him with varying degrees of interest or exasperation. The Scout crossed his arms, sulkily.   
  
Heavy left.   
  
He walked alone down through the labyrinth of corridors towards the infirmary. The closer he got, the harder it seemed to move forward at all. The Doktor wasn't listening, they'd just proved that back in the common room. He was convinced he was no longer safe anywhere near his Heavy, and the rest of the team was looking to Heavy to smooth out a lover's quarrel with a man he'd... frankly never slept with. And that situation was looking more and more permanent all the time.   
  
The Doktor was his comrade, though. So what if he was also handsome, or supremely efficient on the battlefield? The Doktor was his comrade, and... the Doktor was afraid. The meticulous German wore the emotion unnaturally, like starched overcoat. Heavy had seen the Doktor take every kind of risk on the battlefield, because he thought it was his duty. He'd seen the man reach into the ruins of Soldier's knee as the big American howled above him and draw out a thick Sniper round with his gloved fingers, gleaming and twisted. He'd seen the Doktor follow him into unfamiliar situations without a pause once the decision had been made... like the Doktor's having ventured into the sauna in the first place...   
  
  
Fear didn't belong on him.   
  
Heavy opened the door to the infirmary.   
  
The Medic heard the Heavy's tread in the hallway outside, and went rigid. This was it. He couldn't imagine that the big man was willing to let the insult go unanswered. Was the man coming to threaten him, beat him? The Medic hated himself for being so weak. He could have been comrades with the man, had his respect for years, been friends. He had thrown it away. He made a pretext of slotting the Blutsauger syringes into place.   
  
The Doktor was still pointedly ignoring him, Heavy saw. How could he break through this? What could he possibly say, that would get through the Doktor's impenetrable icy reserve? ...Nothing came to mind.   
  
Heavy stood a few paces back from the Medic's shoulder in a thickening ominous silence, punctuated only by the sharp clicks of the Blutsauger's ammunition being loaded.   
Then he remembered something. It was a small, silly thing, but it had its advantages. Heavy reached into the inner pocket of his flak vest, and drew out a Dalokohs bar. He'd picked it up earlier in the day, but had never found time during the firefight to actually eat it. It was a little the worse for wear, and inside the unopened blue wrapper the chocolate squares had clearly broken off from each other... but it was intact, and the Doktor hadn't strayed close enough to the dispenser in the common room to receive any benefit from it.   
  
Heavy paused, set the Dalokohs bar squarely on the corner of the Medic's desk, and left.   
  
  
The Medic stiffened when the Heavy moved in his peripheral vision, then stared at the chocolate bar as if he'd never seen one before. As if he'd never seen anything before. He didn't normally eat sweets... but today had been anything but normal, and the multiple respawns had left him very, very hungry. He set the Blutsauger carefully aside, and took the candy as if it were a rare treasure. He unwrapped it delicately, and took a tiny nibble. It spread bittersweet over his tongue, the best thing he had ever tasted. He had to put it back down on his desk, hands crossed over it, as tears ran down his face.


	11. SCHOKOLADE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was all Teratomarty.

There is only so long that the human body is prepared to spend crying; after that, other considerations present themselves- hunger, back pain, bladder pressure. The BLU Medic wiped his eyes and blew his nose, then straightened up in his chair, arching his back to crack his spine. His stomach growled, and the chocolate bar was still sitting in the center of his desk. He unfolded the wrapper further and picked up a square that had broken off. He let it melt over his tongue, and made his way toward the infirmary bathroom.   
  
In doing up his fly, the Medic discovered that his wounds from the day were poorly scabbed and stinging. They would only prove irritating tomorrow, and they could put him out of commission if they got infected. He retrieved the Medigun and held down the lever to inhale its blue vapors. After a count of ten, he checked a laceration on his forearm. It had dwindled to the smooth red of healthy new tissue, so he stowed the Medigun and put its power cells in their charging dock. He reassured himself that he would not necessarily over-indulge.   
  
He took another square of the Heavy's chocolate, and while it was good, his stomach reminded him that it was not proper food. He made his way to the kitchen and found some of the Scout's perfectly serviceable soup in a bowl in the refrigerator. Someone had been kind enough to set aside his ration. He placed the bowl in the base's wall-sized, dangerously unshielded microwave oven and stood well back. Within ninety seconds, the infernal machine yielded a ping, some hot soup, and a certain amount of electromagnetic radiation. The Medic added some Mann Co. crackers, molded in the shape of Australia, and ate it gratefully.   
  
After his meal the Medic still felt a bit peckish. He took the chocolate bar from its place in his breast pocket and broke off another square. He was finally able to place the subtler flavor- hazel nuts. He was reminded instantly, completely physically, of a chocolate that he had eaten as a child. His mother had given it to him, so he could not have been more than seven years old. It had been one of a box of bonbons, most probably a gift from his father. Had it been his mother's birthday, Christmas? He could not remember, could not have described her face if you had asked an instant before, but he could suddenly envision her smile as if she had kissed him good-bye that morning.   
  
The Medic chewed carefully and swallowed hard, suddenly on the verge of tears again. What had become of him? What sort of man was he now? However... the Heavy had given him this chocolate. He seemed willing to overlook the Medic's advances, willing to work as a team again. If the Heavy thought that he was acceptable... possibly it was true.   
  
The Medic permitted himself one further square of chocolate before folding the wrapper over and going to brush his teeth. He would save the remaining half of the bar for another day. When he got into his bed, it seemed warm, comfortable for the first time in weeks.


	12. EQUILIBRIUM, PART I

Dawn came late to the Coldfront base, as usual, but today was bright and clear, the first rays gilding the snow that had fallen in the night. The Medic's alarm woke him from some dream- it slipped away from him even as he tried to recapture it, leaving him with a vague impression of warmth and bright colors. He stood and stretched in the chilly air of his bedroom, and resolved that today would be better than yesterday had been. Cracking his knuckles, he headed for the infirmary's lone shower. He would have to speak to the Heavy, but the gift of chocolate the previous evening had made the big man seem less daunting.   
  
Heavy's room had no window, and though he'd turned his alarm off the night before, he woke up barely twenty minutes after the time it would have woken him anyway. Years of getting up to walk to school, to make it to his shift at the combine factory on time, to meet the boss at the warehouse up the river, or... it was habit, by now. Heavy didn't regret this, it had saved him trouble on several occasions.   
  
He got up, turned on the light, and went over to shave in a basin he'd set up on a side-table along one wall. Yes, there were sinks in the shower room, and in the communal bathrooms down the hall, but he preferred this. He didn't have to lean down slightly to see himself in the small mirror, for one thing, and for another he could shave in peace. His straight-razor was clean, sharpened yesterday and put away how he liked it, before... It did look something like a scalpel, lying there. Heavy lathered up, took up his razor, and began.   
  
The Medic finished his ablutions and dressed, making his way to the mess hall with only a slight dip in his good mood. He set his jaw and squared his shoulders, which he generally had to do anyway on days when the Demoman was cooking.   
  
The Medic had strong opinions as to what constituted a wholesome breakfast for a crew of fighting men, and while the Scot's cooking covered all of the basic nutritional requirements, his methods involved far more fire, cursing, and mild explosions than the Medic liked to address before his morning coffee. Toast was charring on a griddle alongside a huge pile of congealing reconstituted egg powder, but pride of place was given to a skillet full of sinister pale sausages, which were smoldering and popping loudly. The whole breakfast was awash in grease; whether lard, butter or some sort of machine oil was impossible to say. The Cyclops was looking over the mess, in every sense of the word, with great satisfaction and a mug of liberally spiked coffee.   
  
Heavy rinsed and washed his face, passed a hand over his scalp thoughtfully, and decided he'd leave the light stubble around the back and sides of his head for tomorrow morning. He rinsed and washed his face when he finished shaving, sharpened his razor, then put it and the razor-strop away, and finished getting ready.   
  
Medic helped himself to some relatively charcoal-free toast and, against his better judgement, two of the sausages, though he did avoid the horrible egg-like mass. The coffee had been brewed strong, but that was fine. He sat down and ate his toast with knife and fork, and realized with some surprise that he was beginning to be able to hum along some of the songs that the Demoman bawled in the morning. He nodded calmly as his teammates filtered in, though he did experience a twinge of anxiety at the sight of the Scout.   
  
The Scout looked warily at the Medic as well, as if waiting for him to start foaming at the mouth and attack Mount Eggazilla with his bonesaw or something. When this failed to occur within the time it took Scout to find a plate and attack it himself, he relaxed. Heavy arrived just behind the Soldier, and remembered who was cooking when he caught the distinct pall of smoking margarine. ...He knew it well.   
  
Everyone but the Sniper was already here. At the end of the table nearest the stove, the Pyro sat watching the Demoman, its happily clasped hands and unwavering attention conveying its confident expectation of a horrible flaming accident sooner or later... Even the Doktor was here.   
  
Noticing the Heavy’s arrival, the Medic sat up slightly straighter. He inclined his head at the big man, but affected not to notice him unduly. Teammates, nothing more. He ate the sausages, mopped up some of the grease with the bread, and took the unusual step of getting another cup of coffee, sitting with his teammates longer than necessary as they tore through the breakfast and hashed out their plans for their day off   
  
Today at least, the Doktor would met his eye. That was good... Heavy risked a bit everything that was going, food wise, and sat down across from the Medic and two places over. The nearer spots were taken. Heavy mentally debated whether or not to linger over his coffee to see if the Doktor stayed, too. For one thing, it gave him something to think of aside from the taste of the food. It was by no means the worst he'd had, even from alleged cooks, but when compared with the Engineer's bacon-cheese omelettes and Texas toast... Without ever really deciding to, Heavy lingered, warm coffee cup almost hidden in his hand.   
  
The Medic stood, and took his turn behind the kitchen's huge steel sinks. He donned dish-washing gloves, which he kept separate from his work gloves, and ran hot water into the sink. As his teammates left the mess, he collected their dishes, washing the silverware, then the mugs or glasses, before proceeding to the plates, leaving the abominably greasy pans for last. He looked over at the Heavy, who seemed to be hanging back.   
  
What am I doing, Heavy thought, as Medic finally looked up at him. He shouldn't have stayed. Not this soon after yesterday. It was done, though... Cautiously, though hopefully, he raised his coffee in the Doktor's direction.   
  
Medic turned off the water, scrubbed a few more plates, and looked up at the Heavy. He was glad for the counter between them, but he took a deep breath and addressed the other man. "Herr..." he began, then coughed. "Herr, I feel I must apologize for my behavior over the past few days. I went off by myself like a maniac yesterday, exposing our team, and particularly you, to great harm." There was so much more that he wanted to say, but it was lost in the gray fog of terror rising in his mind.   
  
"...Vas strange day." Heavy nodded, acknowledging this, then got the distinct impression he was making the Doktor uncomfortable. AGAIN. "Did you- -like chocolate?"   
  
The Medic relaxed fractionally as he set some dishes in the drying rack. "It was delicious, thank you. You are being very kind to me, when I have behaved extremely... unreasonably. I admire your professionalism." He took a deep breath. Out with it. "I deeply regret my unprofessional behavior in the sauna the other day. Thank you for your willingness to look past it. I will not suffer another such lapse in the future, and hope that we can continue to work together efficiently." He could not quite meet the big man's eyes, and instead concentrated on slotting a coffee cup onto a peg to dry.   
  
Heavy paused, because He could neither agree with or deny the Medic's statement without lying. "This is... very far base," he began instead carefully, "-no voman but Administrator, and she is cold like Baba Yaga. Even if vhat they think vas true, is not- -eh--" English was considerably harder to use, for a discussion like this, Heavy noted with annoyance- "--big deal, here. No one is to care. And... is my fault too. You run because I nearly fall on you. This vas accident. I am sorry."   
  
"You fell?" the Medic was surprised. "I... I had not noticed." Limbs, he remembered a tangle of limbs, the wooden walls of the sauna lurching around him as he broke away from the Heavy, the stinging cold of the outdoor air. "I was too ashamed. I am sorry."   
  
"Is... okay. We are friends, da?"   
  
"Yes," the Medic smiled, wearily, cautiously. "You are a true friend." His heart was hammering, his very skin seemed to insist that he walk around the counter and embrace the Heavy again. He tightened his grip on the rim of the sink.   
  
Heavy was thinking along similar lines, but he wasn't sure how brittle the Doktor's mental cease-fire was, and he didn't want to push it. He moved to the other side of the scratched metal counter instead, and put his hand on the Doktor's shoulder, beaming. "-Good."   
  
The warmth of Heavy's hand, even through his shirt, seemed to wash over the Medic's whole body. His eyes slid closed for a fraction of a second, and he relaxed slightly. "Thank you, Herr." He realized how physical his response had become, and busied himself with the dishes. It was a good excuse to pull away slightly.   
  
Heavy nodded, still smiling, but his mind was a blank. They had reached a peaceful, even happy equilibrium, and he felt extremely disinclined to tinker with it further. "...I see you later, comrade," he said instead, and left the room.


	13. EQUILIBRIUM, PART II

Heavy set Sasha on the bench in front of him with a deep note of protest from the wood, and looked up. The Doktor stood tall beside the nonplussed Demoman, the bright white of his coat streaked crystalline red with frozen blood along the left-hand side. His face, too, was flushed red from the cold.   
  
"Yes, fine, the drums are an acceptable simulation of Sturm und Drang, but they cannot convey the full range of human experience. The more refined emotions, however, cannot be so conveyed."   
  
"#$*%^&@(- -(#$%- -@!!!)#$!! rieet it is, yoo've got noo idea of the poower, hundreds a'drums gooin at once, yoo can feel tha hills shakin' aroond ye, and the PIPES..." The Demoman paused in his stride for emphasis, and partially blocked Medic's forward progress, "-tha's what gets yoor sool, man... I's a noot as twists an' twines, and echoes wellin' up from god knoos wheere..."   
  
"The martial nature of the entire enterprise is essentially limiting. The only themes of pipe and drum music are war, and more war. There is no scope for love or joy or anything outside the battle," the Medic insisted as he wiped the fog from his glasses. The blood on his coat was melting, and had begun to drip on the floor.   
  
"L'amour, l'émotion... naturally -you- prefer ze opera," the Spy smirked, inserting himself into the the conversation like a sharp whiff of Turkish cigarette smoke, "I must confess I enjoy ballet myself... Many of of les filles ballerine are quite flexible..." he added in a knowing purr.   
  
Heavy, who hadn't seen the Spy saunter in behind the Engineer and Scout, looked over at the Frenchman sharply. Medic was TRYING. Things had been back to a brittle, relieved normalcy for about a week now, and though there had been a few veiled digs such as, 'got your medigun, Doc?' no-one had cared to cross certain lines where their Medic was concerned... until now.   
  
"Herr, do not be crude," the Medic cocked an eyebrow at the Spy. "Your conquests are many and varied, ja, I am certain."   
  
“Oh, pardonnez moi, of course zis topic would hold little fascination for a man of such... refined taste." the Spy smirked.   
  
The Medic's gloves squeaked as he flexed his fingers. It was suddenly very quiet in the common room; the Medic felt as if every eye was upon him. "Herr. I was having a discussion with Herr Demoman about music. There is no call for lewd comments about females... for a change."   
  
"Eet has bothered you for some time, I see..." the Spy observed, taking a drag on his cigarette. "Be assured, I shall keep your sensibilités délicates in mind in the future."   
  
"Mere civility would suffice, I vould not have you over-exert yourself," the Medic snapped. He hoisted the Medigun apparatus again and left for the Infirmary.   
  
"So, didja see the look on that RED Soldier's face when I got 'im during the countdown? BOINK!" the Scout spoke up to fill the suction of silence.   
  
Heavy stood, watching the door a moment after it swung shut. Then he looked back at the Spy, with the expression of a man whose dog has just defecated beneath the table during his most important holiday dinner.   
  
"Tha Doc was rieet, wasn' 'e?" The Demoman elbowed the Spy's narrow chest, beginning to chuckle, "-Yoo are a clapped-up proon, ain't ye?"   
  
The Spy ignored him, and looked back at the Heavy with a very slightly raised eyebrow.   
  
-   
  
The BLU Medic did not consider himself a very sociable person. Unlike certain Scouts he could name, he did not constantly demand attention from his teammates. However, just now, he did not want to be alone. His mind was spinning from the Spy’s remarks, and he needed to talk to someone. The Heavy was the only person who he dared to trust- the man was subject to the same accusations that were leveled at him. Unlike him, though, the Heavy did not seem to mind. He was immune, by virtue of the fact that he was a real man, a true warrior, and could not incidentally crush anyone who dared to mock him. He didn't need to, didn't even need to threaten- his majestic size was deterrent enough. The Medic waited until a time when the Heavy was apt to be cleaning his guns, in a room that the rest of his teammates were content to let him devote to that purpose, then knocked at the door of the armory.   
  
Heavy paused, fine wire brush in hand, glaring up at the blank face of the thick metal door across from the table at which he sat. The knock had to have been one of his teammates, but it had also been curiously hesitant. That meant either some sort of misguided apology, or...   
  
"-Da?" ...The Doktor.   
  
"Herr Heavy?" The Medic stepped in the door. He felt ridiculous, now that he came to see the man who occupied his mind so much of the time. He was just a man. A busy man, cleaning his favorite gun. The Medic cleared his throat. "May I talk to you for a moment?"   
  
Heavy half-rose on instinct, then sat down again just as abruptly. Medic could open doors. "Eh- da, come in..." he called back, instead.   
  
"Thank you, Herr." The Medic crossed the room and sat down on an empty crate. Although he had come here intending to talk, needing to talk, he found himself mutely watching the delicate motions of the big man's hands, instead.   
  
The Doktor sat, obviously on edge but without speaking. The line of the flustered German's tense back looked almost painfully straight, but the Doktor's head tilted slightly forwards, giving the impression of slumping or hunching forwards so as not to be seen. Heavy finished cleaning the trigger mechanism, waiting for the Doktor to speak... he didn't. Yet the Doktor had come to –him- this time. That changed things. Heavy put the part he'd been cleaning down carefully, still producing a muffled 'thonk' from the table, and sighed, wiping his hands on a well-smudged rag that had once been a RED's T-shirt. He looked over at the Medic.   
  
"Dis Spy is-" Heavy struggled for the English translation of the word 'jackass,’ failed, and said it in Russian. "-Everyone knows dis." Heavy nodded once, as if to himself. "I am... glad you came here," he added, without thinking too hard about it.   
  
“Why does he have to talk about it?" the Medic erupted. "If I am suspected, why am I not dismissed? If I have not been dismissed, why am I suspected?" He made a gesture of frustration, hands clawing at the air. "You are above suspicion, of course, but what must I do?"   
  
"Ignore him like yapping dog," Heavy suggested, leaning back in his chair a little. "Zis is vhat spies do. Talk. Distract. Make complication. No one listen, no power."   
  
"It is not just him!" the Medic's voice rose. "The Scout, the Soldier, the Demoman... half of the team, at least, suspect me! They suspect, yet I have never, never-" he bit back his words. "I have done nothing to warrant their accusations!" He had, he knew; the kiss in the sauna had been more than enough to damn him, but none of the others had seen it. He wasn't sure what he wanted from his larger teammate, but now that he was speaking, he couldn't seem to stop.   
  
"Demoman thinks you made joke about Spy has personal disease. He remembers dis more than vat Spy says, I think..." While this was true, Heavy felt he was off the point, somehow. "-It is not, 'suspect or not to suspect'. Is... boredom, like, 'vill it snow today?' " Heavy shrugged, carefully.   
  
"Herr Heavy!" The Medic was trying to scream in a whisper. "Herr, it is true! They suspect only the truth!" He had tried to confess this to the big man before, but the Russian had shrugged it off. "I am- I am-" the word caught in his throat. He wanted to kick over the crates, to throw the components of the Heavy's gun across the room. Instead, he seized the other man by the front of his vest, hoping to force some response.   
  
Heavy was not used to being grabbed, and it surprised him, even from the overwrought Medic. He stared for a moment. Then, he took the Doktor's wrists, one in each hand. He didn't yank them away, but he stopped any tendency of the blue-gloved hands to pull on HIM, and stood.   
  
"I know."   
  
The words shot through the Medic like a bolt of electricity. He knew his teammates suspected him, but the Heavy! The big man trusted him, relied on him in battle- the Medic could not bear to know that the Heavy thought such disgusting things about him, even if they were perfectly true. Somehow, he had hoped that the Russian had thought he was normal, even after the sauna. After all, the man had seemed willing to believe that the Medic had only kissed him for want of an attractive woman. He had to admit, at least to himself, that he didn't want a woman. He wanted the Heavy. He wrenched at the Heavy's vest, trying to pull him close, trying to hide the emotions twisting his face.   
  
Heavy couldn't tell what kind of inner demons were making the Doktor's face contort like that, but he did know that his friend was dangerously close to losing it. Again. He let go of the Doktor's wrists abruptly and pulled him in close, trying to contain whatever this was before the Doktor could do himself any more damage. If admitting he'd known (and by implication, didn't hold it against the Doktor) didn't help... Heavy could at least do this.   
  
The Medic sobbed. It was an ugly sound, like water in a clogged pipe. It was followed by another sob, and another, and he couldn't stop shaking. The Heavy's arms around him were as soothing as he had ever wanted, and he felt sick with guilt about the other things he had wanted from the man. Ignoring the confused signals from his mind, his body just pressed closer to the big man’s warmth.   
  
Medic made a few strangled-sounding sobs, then settled into a healthier-sounding pattern, albeit muffled against the front of the Heavy’s vest. The Doktor didn't quite feel solid, somehow. Like something that was happening in the German's mind was melting him down, reshaping him. The tears that soaked through Heavy's shirt at the open collar of his vest felt hot rather than warm. The move was made, though. The Doktor was HERE. ...This was not a bad thing.   
  
Unable to hold onto his pride any longer, the Medic held onto the Heavy instead. He pressed himself against the younger man, feeling ridiculous, ashamed, but also... warm, as if he had never been warm before. The Heavy knew, and evidently didn't care. This man had seen him at his worst- blown up, hacked open, screaming, using poor tactics and now this- and he was still letting the Medic rest in his arms. The German tried to bite back another gale of sobs.   
  
The Heavy waited. Part of it was that he wasn't sure what to do next. Partly, he was in no hurry to be anywhere -else-. There was no mission, no appointment. Nothing but Sasha's long rotary barrels, gleaming darkly on the table. He needed to finish there, but five minutes, an hour more or less would do no harm.   
  
Eventually, the Medic stopped crying. He felt wrung-out, empty. He realized that he should let go of the larger man, apologize, excuse himself, go do some calisthenics. His body out-and-out refused, though. He could not force his arms to release the Russian's chest, or his legs to carry him an inch away. His face felt hot. "Herr-" he began, but he couldn't think of anything else to say.   
  
"Da?" Heavy responded, evenly. The Doktor was calm enough to release, he judged, but instead he just loosened his hug to something less like forcible restraint. He could almost feel the Doktor thinking.   
  
The Medic's mind was completely blank. In the center, all alone, was the truth of what he wanted to say to the Heavy, but he felt that there were miles between that fact and reality. There was no excuse, no logic- his head dipped again and he was afraid he would once more start to cry. "Herr Heavy, I am a homosexual and-" the Medic bit down, hard, on the inside of his cheek to forestall the final portion of his only thought. It was one thing to accept that a comrade-in-arms was abnormal; it might be quite another for the Heavy to know that the abnormality was focused upon himself.   
  
It was there for a moment, like a moth against a windowpane, then gone. Heavy looked at what he could see of the Doktor's face from this angle, and saw that there would be no finishing that sentence any time soon... yet the beginning, the overall admission that the Doktor had made to him here today was shattering enough, in all conscience. Shattering to the Doktor, rather. Heavy didn't mind in the least if the Doktor was queer. It wasn't... something he'd given more than a passing thought, until the incident in the sauna, but... He could -feel- the tension flowing down out of the Medic, like a river finally breaking the ice that covers it. Bone-deep relief, and a leap into territory the Doktor clearly found terrifying... that he'd had found the courage to make HERE. In front of Heavy. ...-On- him, even. Heavy felt obscurely pleased by this. Warmth, from an unseen source. He smiled down against the Doktor's hair.   
  
"This is- -fine with me."   
  
"You are very kind." The Medic rested his head on the Heavy's chest again, eyes simply closed rather than clenched against tears. "I have not admitted this to anyone, before. I was treated for it, when I was seventeen, and was supposed to be cured. It did not work, not entirely. I have never- I have not engaged in homosexual acts." He wasn't sure whether he was defending himself, or making incriminating excuses.  
  
There was a rhetoric for this sort of thing, a suggestive joke, an offer of favors exchanged... anything to keep it comradely, casual. Men letting off steam in the colder, lonelier corners of the world... The Doktor, Heavy sensed, was not that kind of man. Maybe he could be, given time, but this childhood wound was open, raw. Heavy didn't know what 'treated' was being used as a euphemism for, but it didn't sound good, and if that was what had locked the Doktor inside himself...   
  
The German was a very complicated man, Heavy knew. More complicated perhaps, than he'd bargained for when they'd become friends... He was attractive, too. Precise. Interesting. Good with his hands. Heavy would not mind getting to know a comrade like this better, with fewer clothes. The Doktor was hair-trigger though, fragile and dangerous as broken glass. He meant well. He did no harm, to his own team at least...   
  
The Doktor needed truth now, not jokes.   
  
"I- have. I have... also been vith woman. Is not so different, I find."   
  
The Medic's body froze over, starting with his tongue, which clove to the roof of his mouth. The Heavy had done- the Medic had enshrined his large friend as a paragon of wholesome normality. To hear that he had done what the Medic had avoided all his life was terrifying, and thrilling. The German thought back to his overheated fantasies about the Heavy- what had the man actually done? Would he do it to the Medic? Could the Medic stop him, if he wanted to? His rapid, shallow breathing dried his throat completely.   
  
"Euh... you should breathe?" Heavy suggested, cursing his own sense of verbal timing.   
  
"Bitte-" The Medic followed the Heavy's suggestion with a deep breath. "I do not-" again, his mind was empty. He had meant to say that he did not want to engage in homosexual acts with the Heavy... except that he did, to a humiliating degree. He tried to shift his hips away from the larger man's body. "I am frightened," he admitted, something else he had never confessed to anyone.   
  
"Of... you will be caught?" Heavy asked, trying to catch the Doktor's drift.   
  
"Of... everything," the Medic sighed. "Afraid I will be found out, afraid I will be fired, afraid I will be put in prison... It makes me tired. I am even afraid of what I want. Afraid of you. I am a coward."   
  
Heavy's arms loosened a little more, so that he could see the Doktor's face as they spoke, but then he couldn't think of what else to say. He stroked the Medic's shoulder blade with the side of his thumb slowly, considering. "What I have seen... no one cares unless dere is reason to hate that is not -dis. Like glasses... is needed, but can be target." He paused for a while, then added, "...And dere is no need, that you should fear me."   
  
The Medic laughed- just a short, sharp bark. "Any man who does not fear you is a fool; you carry a tank-mounted weapon as a sidearm!" Unbidden, his hands copied what the Heavy was doing to him, moving across the Russian's back.   
  
...And you could saw my head off like you did that Scout's, Heavy thought, but instead he said,   
"Why vould I turn dis on you?"   
  
"I- I mean to say that, you- nein." The Medic shook his head. "It is not reasonable. You are a dutiful and reliable teammate." The man in front of him was so different from the monster of his nightmares, the victim of his fantasies- how could he think such terrible things about his teammate?   
  
"...I thank you," Heavy nodded. Suddenly, he was tired too. Tired of emotional extremes, tired of watching the tortured thoughts ripple across the Doktor's face with no idea what half of them meant... The Doktor's world was not kind to either of them.   
  
"-Do you know it, chess?" Heavy asked, instead.   
  
"The basics, yes," the Medic ventured a small smile. He could see that the Heavy was trying to move back toward a less charged topic. "I do not play very well, but I am aware of the rules. Do you enjoy it?"   
  
"I do," Heavy smiled. ...And one could see much about a man's mind, by playing chess with him. "-You would vish to play?"   
  
"Yes, I would." The Medic drew himself back, though his very skin protested. He felt as though a fever had broken, as though he were recovering from an illness. He stood upright to cover how weak he felt. "You may not mock me too harshly," he spoke sternly, but smiled.   
  
"Ve shall see," Heavy replied, but he grinned as he said it.


	14. HARD WORK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is all Teratomarty.

The battle was over for the day, called off mid-morning due to a howling blizzard. By five in the afternoon, it had mainly stopped, leaving only a few flakes drifting through the air as every member of BLU was dispatched to clear some of the meter of snow that had fallen. The Medic volunteered to do a long section of pathway between the outbuildings, and took over a patch from the Engineer, who was on mess duty. 

In the meditative silence of hard work, the Medic considered his conversation with the Heavy. Not only had he admitted his homosexuality to the Russian- he was still reeling in disbelief- but the big man had known all along. Had known, and had embraced him anyway. How long had he known? Had he been aware before insisting that the Medic join him in the sauna? 

Moreover, the Heavy had admitted to engaging in homosexual contact, himself. The Medic could barely believe it. In his army days, he had heard all sorts of stories about the amoral perversity of the Russians, but that was the sort of thing that nations at war always said about the enemy. The Heavy, along with the Sniper and the Engineer, were fine fighters from nations that had been on the other side in the war. While the Soldier was obviously psychotic and the Scout was a noisy child, they were certainly no worse than some members of the German army had been. Even the Demoman, for all that he was an alcoholic, was not the African monster that the Hitler Youth leaders had described. So much that the Medic had learnt as a young man was wrong... 

“Not so different.” The Heavy’s words wove around the Medic’s every thought. In what way could homosexual contact be like sex with a woman? It seemed impossible. Obviously, the Heavy had been the active partner. Possibly the man beneath him had been woman-like? It was impossible to envision. The Medic found it much easier to picture the Heavy making love to Lilli, his own long-ago girlfriend. 

Lilli had been tall, blonde and athletically slender, quite the ideal of German womanhoood. She always enjoyed sex, and if the Medic’s performances as a young man had been uninspired, he had at least been good at following orders. His face, warm from exertion already, grew hot as he imagined Lilli telling the Heavy- do this, kiss here, touch there. It seemed likely that the big man would amiably obey the requests of a beautiful woman- surely, the Heavy would please her. 

“Not so different,” the Medic considered again. With his mind unclouded by the nightmare dread of his own desires, the Medic could see that the Heavy was a careful, decent man. If he would please a woman, perhaps he would also please a male lover. The thought was incongruous, unfathomable. The Medic had to lean on his shovel for a moment to absorb it. 

As he returned to shoveling, he considered his meager store of knowledge about homosexuality. That which didn’t come from dirty jokes was from the lectures of the doctor who had tried to cure him. Everything suggested that being taken by a man would be painful, disgusting. However... 

There was one other source of truth. Before Lilli, before the treatment, the day his life went wrong. One afternoon, in the hayloft of a barn-turned-garage, the young man who would become the Medic for the BLU team had laid down next to another boy. His face and name were gone, censored by the Medic’s own memory. They hadn’t done any of the hateful, agonizing things that he was later conditioned to fear. 

Instead, he had touched the incredible, velvety-hard warmth of the other boy’s penis, watched with wonder and desire as he stroked it. The boy had moaned, rolled on top of him, pulled away their clothing to press his erection against the Medic’s naked stomach. He was beautiful as he came. His weight, his warmth, his thigh between the Medic’s legs had been blissful. The Medic had come in his own pants, gasping out the other boy’s name- Erich, that was it. Erich. 

He tried to halt the memory there. He had replayed the next scene far too often- Erich’s mother coming in, screaming, dragging them apart, telling his father. It had been terrible, had led only to worse things. 

For that one moment, though, when he was seventeen, he had touched another man. It was the purest joy he had known until kissing the Heavy in the sauna, fully thirty years later. He thought of Erich, thought of Lilli, thought of the gentle motions of the Heavy’s hands as he cleaned his gun. Perhaps there was some method of pleasure, some way for the passive partner to enjoy the act as much as the active man. He finished clearing the snow, and went inside to see what the Engineer had made for dinner.


	15. CHESS MATCH

In the silence of the armory, Heavy opened a blue and white pastry tin, and took out the pieces of his chess set two and three at a time. They were traditionally carved and solid, the wood stained dark or left pale according to side. The original board that had gone with them had suffered a mishap in the mountains of Afghanistan, and he had purchased a checked bandanna from a peasant woman at the time to replace it. This bandanna was now the liner of the metal tin. The simple, black and red board he set the pieces up on now was in fact the sole survivor of a cheap checkers set from his last base, but it served the purpose, and allowed the pieces to slide smoothly across the board for the kill in a way that cloth wouldn't.   
  
...There was the black knight with the horse's ear slightly notched. There was the white king he'd covertly switched for the original one he'd broken the crown cross of in the first year he'd owned them. As he held it now, the cross reminded him of a medic's badge. Heavy smiled to himself, and set the piece into place with the others on the board.   
  
Back straight, the Medic marched toward the armoury for his scheduled chess match with the Heavy. Perhaps "lesson" would be a better term for what they had planned... he had ventured a few games in secondary school, and hadn't played since. He hoped that he remembered how the pieces were meant to move. He was trying to avoid thinking about the other implications of spending time alone with the big man. It was just a game, just something to pass the long, dark evenings on the Coldfront base.   
  
-Tea, Heavy decided, he should have brought tea. No-one else at his last base had had an interest in chess, and he'd fallen out of the habit of setting games up right. He could trust the Doktor not to shift the pieces if he went to get some later, though...   
  
The Medic knocked sharply at the door. This was the Heavy's domain, though not as private as his bedroom; technically, anyone who wanted a new shotgun or more ammunition could come here at any time. However, most of the men were in the habit of keeping their weaponry in their rooms, and there was no reason to come looking for bullets between the battles. The Heavy was the only person who really spent time in this room, tending to his beloved minigun. Even out here in the hall, the Medic could smell oil and gunpowder.   
  
"Da, come in!" Heavy called towards the door in greeting. At precisely the time he'd agreed upon with the Doktor, there was no one else it could really be.   
  
The Medic stepped through the door with a tight smile. Should he shut the door behind him? He was afraid of what might happen, what he might be tempted to do, behind closed doors with the big Russian. He swung the door shut, but left it open, just a crack, just enough to remind himself that they were not in private. "How do you do?" he asked the other man.   
  
“Very well, sit down, be velcome," Heavy replied, motioning to the chair across the scarred wooden table from his own. There was warmth, but also a strange formality about this. Like meeting someone in a public restaurant when he had already worked with him on an illegal job. Heavy found he disliked the feeling of artificiality, but was not yet sure how to dispel it.   
  
"Danke, Herr Heavy," the Medic sat, noticing that the Heavy had given him the white pieces, a gift to a novice. He, too was conscious of the formality- he generated it, covered himself in it like a cloaked Spy. To hide his nervousness, he looked down at the board, and moved out the queen's knight's pawn two spaces in an initial sally.   
  
Heavy closed his mouth on the statement that he'd forgotten the tea, and would be back in a few minutes. It was so like the Doktor, to rush in decisively once his choice had been made. ...Had the meticulous German thought this move out in advance? Was he in fact modest, and far better at the game than he'd let on? Heavy studied the board, chin in hand. His eyes were drawn first to the queen's bishop, which would be free to scour his center line of defense with one more move by the Doktor's opening pawn. The knight, he left alone for the moment, except in so far as it blocked the white queen's rook. The Doktor's queenside bishop though... would he be greedy, or would he allow the piece to be locked in place? Heavy took a conscious step back mentally, remembering that this opponent was his friend, and probably rather nervous. Then he moved.   
  
In truth, the Medic had only the faintest idea of what he was doing. He watched the Heavy's face as the big man perused the board, noting where his eyes hit. Such clear, blue eyes. Once the Heavy had made his move, the Medic slid his king's bishop's pawn out, with the general plan of claiming the Heavy's opening salvo. He knew that this was a game for long-term strategy, but he had none, not now, not here.   
  
Heavy noticed, a move later than he really should have, that the Doktor's second-moved pawn had opened a clear diagonal line of attack for his own black queen. The check wouldn't hold though, that pawn could be brought out, and though he probably could find a way around it... no. He would play defensively this time, but if the Doktor's assaults failed too often, he would kill him.   
  
The Medic watched the way that the Heavy's big fingers met the chessmen- so delicately, after much deliberation. The big man looked so thoughtful, solemn. The Medic wanted to touch his hand. Instead, he saw the big man's eyes flicking at the black queen and his own king, and decided that perhaps he'd best put something in the way. He selected his king's knight.   
  
So, the Doktor hadn't seen that check either, until- -he's watching me, Heavy realized. The thought, and what that said about the Doktor's quick mind pleased him, but he didn't quite smile.   
  
The Heavy's blue eyes darted to the Medic's face, and the Medic felt a shock of heat. The game, he needed to concentrate on the game, his Russian opponent was more than capable of wiping the floor with him, for all that he was attractive. The German vaguely remembered something about castling, protecting the king with the rooks. He cast about the board, and moved the king closer to its rook.   
  
A strange move. Heavy stared at the white king in spite of himself, trying to figure out what the Doktor's intention had been. He couldn't let this go though, it was too risky a move to encourage. There were plenty of options open to get the white king out of check again, however...   
  
“Check," Heavy said, quietly.   
  
Oh, Mother of- the Medic looked down at the board to see the Heavy's queen aimed right at his king. He hastily moved his king's pawn into the queen's path, and stared at the big man in shock.   
  
"Good," Heavy nodded, and returned his queen to her defending position at the black king's side.   
  
Startled, the Medic replayed the last few moments. The Heavy said he'd done well? He'd ridiculously endangered his king, revealed his entire ignorance... and fixed it. He'd done well. He smiled at the larger man, and gratefully dropped his king into its place by the rook.   
  
Some of the tension in the room seemed to dissipate with the dull but clear clack as the Doktor's king was set down again, and Heavy was glad of it. The tension had been putting his friend at an unnecessary disadvantage.   
  
The Medic was feeling more confident, having chased away the Heavy's queen, but he knew better than to get cocky. He considered the board. How would he do this, if it were his team and the Heavy's chessmen were the REDs? He couldn't leave everyone hanging around in the base.   
  
The Doktor's next move was more aggressive, and it shelved what Heavy had been about to say about how to kill in the neighborhood of the Doktor's queen. Heavy wished idly that he had a rook out. He always felt better when at least one of his rooks was out. He moved a pawn instead.   
  
A pawn, threatening his bishop? Insolence! The Medic could see that, if his bishop took that pawn, that would leave it open to slaughter by the black king's bishop. He moved a pawn up to challenge the intruder. He felt... comfortable, now. His little team, the Heavy's team, it was familiar. Even if he lost this, all the pieces would Respawn. There would be other games.   
  
While the counter-blockading pawn did defend the Doktor's rook against his kingside bishop- and he had been eyeing that rook -it didn't do much against the pawn he'd threatened the Doktor's bishop with in the first place. Heavy's black pawn took the bishop.   
  
The Heavy had first blood, but the Medic moved his queen's knight out to punish the insolent pawn. He didn't mind if he lost, the Medic realised. It was a strange feeling; his whole life had been a struggle for dominance, for control. He was safe here, though. Even if the Heavy took every piece, one by one, the Medic wouldn't lose anything real. Just by spending time alone with his teammate, the Medic had won the only thing worth having.   
  
He loves his knights, Heavy observed. Aside from the double-jumping pawns, a knight was the first thing the Doktor had brought into play, and now he had used one to draw first blood for the white side. Heavy darted out his kingside bishop to take the knight, fully aware that he would have to then make a run for it to avoid the Doktor's queen.   
  
Gah! How had he missed that? The Medic snarled at the offending bishop.   
  
A white pawn crept forwards, ignoring the threat inherent in the black bishop. And why shouldn't it? Like a spy, if the bishop did anything other than stay in place or retreat completely, it would be killed. Both of the Heavy’s rooks and the queenside bishop were blocked in. His own defenses, good though they were, were becoming a prison...   
  
All this messing-about with pawns... the Medic knew that he had no idea what he was doing, but he craved action. He moved up his remaining knight.   
  
Heavy wanted to move his queenside rook, but he had to reply to the Doktor's knight. He looked at the knight's approaches, then moved on instinct.   
  
His queen was in danger in two moves, the Medic realised. He moved her up, out of danger. She reminded him oddly of the Heavy- a nearly unstoppable killing machine, but in need of protection. The king was barely a piece at all, more like an ever-so-slightly mobile control point, or Intel that one could hide.   
  
Heavy felt it too, the sense that battle had been joined. Seeing that the Doktor's queen had just trapped herself behind two pawns, he brought the lurking black bishop out again in the other direction, to drive a wedge between the two white royals.   
  
The Medic moved his remaining knight, setting his sights on the black king's trapped rook. He grinned at the Heavy in the sheer joy of the fight. He felt a thrill of adrenaline, not as intense as the rush of battle, but without the risk of agonising death.   
  
Now the pieces were falling faster, but if the knight touched the rook, Heavy would- -!   
  
The white knight was doomed, the Medic realized. Whether he moved it or not, the black queen would slaughter it. Deciding to give it a hero's death, he took out the rook, and locked eyes with the Heavy.   
  
The question was not whether the white knight would die. The question was, what piece would the Doktor turn to, with both his knights dead? The Bishop, perhaps, but it would be messy, and leave the white king open to attack. The free white rook or the white queen, then... The Doktor's eyes challenged him from across the table, intent.   
  
The Medic could see that he was well behind... he had lost many of his stronger warriors. He'd have to sacrifice some of his pawns if he even hoped to make a respectable dent in the Heavy's defences. The Russian would see through any feint that he tried, and he did not have enough strong pieces left for a frontal attack. He decided to make a simple move, the queen's rook's pawn.   
  
Heavy studied the board, turning a previously-captured piece between his fingers, the edge of it's base still on the tabletop. The Doktor was protecting his more valuable pieces now. He wanted his own queenside bishop out, but before that...   
  
The delicate motions of the Heavy's fingers over his fallen bishop had the Medic captivated. The Russian treated his prisoners well... the Medic's heart pounded at the intrusive thought. He imagined himself at the Heavy's mercy, subject to those huge, gentle hands- clenching his fist on his lone conquest, the black rook, the Medic forced his own attention back to the game. He'd brought his king over to his own nearest rook, but the castle was effectively trapped by its own pawns. He moved one up into the black bishop's blind side.   
  
Good, the Doktor had seen just how badly his king would have been trapped, had the white queen been drawn off elsewhere. The his own black queenside bishop would take too many moves to free up, however... Heavy moved a knight, halting the path of a white pawn, and strengthening his own king's defense.   
  
All right, the Medic thought, the queen's rook had spent too much time cowering in his corner. The Medic moved him over to defend the queen, and looked across at the Heavy.   
  
Heavy nodded once, looking on the Doktor's move with approval, but quickly took the now exposed white pawn, freeing up a path for his own queenside rook to join the battle. The Doctor's concentration of forces in one corner around the white king was fascinating, but it could be dangerous to either side.   
  
They played a few moves, the Medic advancing his pawns, the Heavy sliding his knight around in mysterious manoeuvres. The Heavy seemed to be leaning forward... the Medic wished that he had played poker with the man before now. Watching his eyes was easy enough, he did that on the battlefield all the time in order to follow his teammate to the next target, but he felt that he was missing some subtlety of the big man's thought process.   
  
“Check,” the Heavy said softly. The Medic made a flurry of defensive moves, hemmed in by the black pieces on every side. It wasn't that the Heavy was menacing him; he didn't feel that he was being hunted down. Instead, he was trapped behind his own defenses. Trapping himself... he pushed the thought aside, and moved his rook to where it could support both the king and queen.   
  
Ignoring both white rooks for the moment, Heavy pushed the black queen forward a single space more, to menace the white queen. The tall, carved pieces stared at each other across their tiny battlefield, each equally capable of killing the other.   
  
The Medic's fingers twitched- he could kill! The black queen was just sitting there! However, before he picked up the piece, he realised that the resulting position would leave his own queen up for ignominious slaughter by either of two black pawns. Instead, he judiciously moved a pawn up to block the black matriarch.   
  
The Heavy could repeat the challenge by taking the white pawn, but- -no, the white rook. Menace the rook then, and see what happened...   
  
Was the Heavy really chasing his rook? The Medic tried to move it out of danger, but it could really only go one space. Trapped, again, by the defences he had built. The Medic watched the big man intently. He realized that most of his team probably never saw the Russian in this state of quiet contemplation- did the Heavy play chess with anyone else?   
  
His queen's challenge, and trap, had been declined by both pieces. He must keep his Doktor too busy defending to attack, however... Heavy moved.   
  
"So many vays to die in this game," he said, smiling a little.   
  
"Ja, but it never really matters," the Medic ventured a smile himself. "They will all Respawn the next time we wish a game." He had to ask. "Do you... play often?" he said casually, moving a pawn to temporarily thwart the black knight.   
  
"Vith others? Nyet," Heavy replied, moving his knight neatly over the white pawns.   
  
"Is it possible to play with yourself?" the Medic asked, a split-second before he realized how that sounded in English. Face going white with shock, he moved his queen out of the knight's path, nearly tipping her over in his haste to flee.   
  
Heavy looked up, a motion that was mostly in his eyes, but his smile didn't falter. "Of course. If man can not play game to amuse himself, this is sad day..." Heavy left that in the air for a moment, then took the white queen with his queenside rook, and added, "-also there are books, and each Sunday there is chess puzzle in paper. Back page."   
  
The Medic didn't know whether the Heavy's command of English was that much weaker than his own, or whether the big man was really... really suggesting that he- ! What he did know was that his panic had made a fool of him. He advanced a pawn.   
  
Did the Doktor know about the promotion of pawns? Heavy wasn't sure, but he would certainly tell him if the pawn survived for two spaces more. If. The temptation to take it now was strong, but Heavy had bigger problems, in the form of the white bishop. But would it leave the white king's side? Then something further back on the board caught his eye.   
  
"Check."   
  
The Medic nearly swore aloud. The Heavy had him on the run, as surely as if his black queen was holding a minigun. He moved his king into the protection of the otherwise useless pawn in endless face-off with the black bishop.   
  
The Heavy attacked with supreme calm, and the Medic hissed between his teeth. If he was going to go down, and he was, he would at least go out fighting, but-   
  
"Check," the Heavy said again, without special emphasis.   
  
Once again, the Medic's king was reduced to cowering in the corner. The Medic found that the piece reminded him of a mission he had been on, long ago. Shortly after signing on with BLU, his team had been tasked with escorting some tubby, whimpering civilian across a contested zone. That man had irritated him, and so did this king.   
  
The carnage on the board was getting decisive, but the Doktor had surprised him too many times already for Heavy to mentally declare victory. He took a white rook.   
  
The Medic had to earn back some power. He struggled to promote his pawn, only to have it stamped out by the Heavy’s queen. Damnation, he should have recalled that queens could move backward. However... he slid his lone rook forward one space. "Check." It couldn't hold, but it felt so good to say.   
  
"This is true," Heavy nodded, acknowledging. He moved the black king up, into the flanking protection of three pawns. After the Medic’s next move, the Heavy proceeded to decimate the German’s remaining warriors. The white king was now utterly alone, but it wasn't a check, not quite.   
  
The Medic left his useless king where it was, and sent a pawn to blow a raspberry in the black king's face.   
  
The message was received, but Heavy was intent. He moved another knight, not creating a check or taking a piece, but further crowding the trapped white king.   
  
The white king was trapped, hemmed in from every direction, without anyone to come to his aid. The Medic claimed a pawn, only to notice too late that his remaining rook could have provided some reinforcement.   
  
There it was, the shining twist that brought the Doktor back into the fight. Heavy looked to the defense of his king.   
  
The Medic noted with some surprise that the Heavy seemed to think he had done something worthwhile. Now, he wondered if he was making a mistake by sliding the rook back down the board to defend his poor stupid king, but that was what he did. He surveyed his troops with grim determination- a handful of Scouts and possibly a Soldier to defend his civilian.   
  
Deftly blocking the Medic’s efforts to promote a pawn, the Heavy had to sacrifice a knight. The Medic claimed it, fingers caressing the worn chess piece as he lifted it from the board.   
  
After a flurry of quick moves, the Heavy stopped to consider the board. He moved out his remaining knight from where it had been forgotten beside the black bishop, and took the white rook, capturing the last of the Doktor's long-range pieces.   
  
The Medic had forgotten that knight, too. He wished it was possible to feed Bonk to the pawns. With no such luck, he moved one a single, plodding space up the board.   
  
The Doktor would not concede, Heavy observed. He was unsurprised by this, and slid his queen up one space.   
  
The quest of this one doomed pawn was somewhat noble, the Medic thought. He moved it up toward the end of the board, and into the range of a black pawn that had not moved at all. Heavy let the pawn continue, and sent his queen diagonally to the right, clear across the board. "-Check..."   
  
The Medic had been expecting this. However, even as he moved the king into a defensive position, he realised that he now truly wanted to lose to the Heavy. Not to surrender, but to be- beaten. The word brought back the fantasy he had entertained in which the Heavy violated him, killed him. Involuntarily, his eyes flicked to the big man's hands. He wanted to feel them upon him, but all afternoon the Heavy had offered no more violence than the game afforded. He wanted to see what the Heavy would do with his victory.   
  
Heavy moved his queen in closer, not immediately regaining the check, but trapping the Doktor's white king on every side. This was fine with the Medic- he now had two pawns ready for promotion, menacing and menaced by the black king. Possibly one of these brothers-in-arms would survive the king's onslaught.   
  
"You put me in check once again," Heavy observed, before killing the pawn in question with his own king.   
  
The Medic promoted the remaining pawn. He knew full well that the Heavy would destroy it at his leisure, but he was proud that he had managed to resist at least that far. He watched the Heavy's hands and eyes carefully, waiting for the next move.   
  
Heavy handed the Doktor back the captured white queen, watched as it was set it up, then took the piece again, adding, "If dis turn had been yours, I vould be dead."   
  
"You are too kind, kamerad," the Medic smiled slightly. "Your army would still be three times as large as mine." He looked down at the board. Any place the poor, sorry white king moved would put him in check. He made the only move still available to him, advancing his last pawn.   
  
Heavy moved up his rook to cover the last angle. "Checkmate."   
  
The Medic sighed with resignation, but he smiled as he met the Heavy's eyes. "Will you do the formality?" He moved his pawn its lone place, inviting the Heavy to claim his king.   
  
“Vith pleasure," Heavy nodded, and tilted the cross-topped white piece over carefully onto its side with no more than a faint clack. Then he smiled, putting a large hand on the Doktor's shoulder, and much of the focus and animation that were usually so native to the man but had been oddly muted during the game returned. "-This has been VUNDERFUL game! You kept me from killing you for hours! ...Ve must play again some time."   
  
"I would like that." The Medic rested his hand on the larger man's arm, not an embrace, but close. "I would like it a great deal."   
  
"Good! Is settled. ...Come, I forget to bring tea. Vith chess there should have been tea..." Heavy began, steering the Doktor towards the slightly-open door with one arm around his shoulders.   
  
"Of course," the Medic replied, trying to conceal the intensity of the pleasure he got from spending so much time with the Heavy. "Are you hungry? I feel I should make celebratory sandviches."   
  
"I like dis plan," Heavy agreed.   
  
1\. b4 e6   
  
2\. f4 g6   
  
3\. b5 c6   
  
4\. Nf3 cxb5   
  
5\. Kf2 Qb6+   
  
6\. e3 Qd8   
  
7\. Kg1 a6   
  
8\. Ba3 b4   
  
9\. c3b xa3   
  
10\. Nxa3 Bxa3   
  
11\. d4 b5   
  
12\. Ne5 Be7   
  
13\. Qd2 Bh4   
  
14\. Nxg6 Qf6   
  
15\. Nxh8 Qxh8   
  
16\. a4 Nc6   
  
17\. g4 Nge7   
  
18\. Rc1 bxa4   
  
19\. h3 Na5   
  
20\. Qd3 Bb7   
  
21\. g5 Rc8   
  
22\. Rh2 Qg7   
  
23\. Re2 Qg6   
  
24\. e4 Qh5   
  
25\. Re3 Nb3   
  
26\. Rb1Ng6   
  
27\. f5 Nf4   
  
28\. Qc4 Rxc4   
  
29\. g6 Qg5+   
  
30\. Kh2 Nd2   
  
31\. Rxb7 Nxf1+   
  
32\. Kh1 Nxe3   
  
33\. g7 Qxg7   
  
34\. Rb8+ Ke7   
  
35\. Rb7 Nxh3   
  
36\. fxe6 Nf1   
  
37\. e[lost data here]7 Rc8   
  
38\. Rb1 Kd8   
  
39\. Rxf1 Rxc3   
  
40\. Rf4 Nxf4   
  
41\. e5 Qg6   
  
42\. e6 Qb1+   
  
43\. Kh2 Qf1   
  
44\. e7+ Kxe7   
  
45\. d8=Q+ K[lost data here]8   
  
46\. d5 Rc2#


	16. PHLEBOTOMY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was all Teratomarty.

The Medic tried to calm himself as he made ready for an early bedtime. There would be a fresh battle, a real battle, in the morning, not just a quiet game of chess with the Heavy. For the first time since he could remember though, the Medic would almost rather spend a day sitting still than charging against the enemy. He wanted another game of chess.   
  
He thought back over the moves he had made to when he had the Heavy’s king pinned in place with two pawns. While thinking, he stripped off his shirt and put it in the laundry, folded his pants over the back of his chair for the morning. He could have had him then! How had he missed that? If he had promoted the first pawn right away, the black king could indeed have answered the insult. However, that would have left him in position to be slaughtered by the second pawn. The Heavy’s entire army had been at the other end of the board, no-one to aid his king. He wouldn’t have let the Medic win right away, of course not, but the white side could have had two queens with which to harass the black side. He had failed to realize that his lowly pawns could even threaten a king. Heavy had had to tell him that his own black king was in check.  
  
  
The Medic had lost, as he had expected. However, as he thought of how delicately the Heavy’s huge fingers had laid down his conquered king, he didn’t feel as stupid as he had expected. He had spent an entire long evening with the big man, watching his face, watching the gentle motions of his massive hands.   
  
Those hands- the Medic lay down and pulled up the sheets. He knew every measurement of every bone, but watching them move still fascinated him. He had seen them hoist immense weights, crush bone, and yet they could pluck a pawn out of the fray without so much as bumping a single other piece. In the gloom, the Medic realized that an erection was tenting his blankets. Ridiculous, to be so aroused by a man’s hands. He flipped over onto his stomach, determined to ignore his unreasonable penis.   
  
Instead, his erection slipped out of the fly of his boxers to slide against the worn-out softness of his bed sheets. The sensation was so unexpected that he moaned, loudly, and ground his hips down for more. An instant later, he clapped a hand over his mouth, jammed his erection back into his boxers. What if someone had heard that? What was wrong with him? Gritting his teeth, he lay on his side and listed the major blood vessels, in order from ascending to descending, arteries to veins, until he fell asleep.   
  
In some detached way, the Medic knew that he was dreaming. It didn’t really matter, and he didn’t try to steer the dream. He was content to watch his unconscious mind at work, and besides, the Heavy needed a transfusion.   
  
The big man did not look ill, not really. He was calm and peaceful, waiting patiently as the Medic set up the phlebotomy cannula. It was an old-fashioned device, simple in operation, consisting of a cylindrical hand-pump with valves not unlike those of the heart itself, and two needle-tipped tubes. He inserted the collecting tube into his own left cubital vein, filled the pump, and pierced the skin of the Heavy’s right arm with the transfusing tube. With a steady, gentle motion, he pulled the blood from his body with the first action of the pump, and pushed it into the Heavy’s with the second. He felt an overwhelming tenderness in giving the Heavy his own vital essence. He would have given the big man anything. He could feel his heart beating, louder and louder, as his blood drained away.   
  
Strangely, he did not seem to be growing weak. Previous mandatory donations of blood had always left him weak, listless. Now, though, he felt energized, renewed vigor flowing through him. He looked over at the Heavy, who was now beaming openly. The Russian had a second transfusion pump, the long cylinder almost hidden in his meaty hand. As he pumped it- in, out, in, out- it pushed blood from the Heavy’s left arm into his own right. How had he failed to notice it before? They were sharing their blood in a perfect circle, pulses throbbing in unison.   
  
It was too much- the Medic moaned. The Heavy’s heart was far stronger, far bolder than his own. This direct connection was too intense. He would overflow, would burst, would be washed away on the tide of the Heavy’s blood.   
  
This seemed to be what the big man wanted, though. He was pushing closer to the Medic, pumping harder. He was forcing the Medic to take all he had to give, and the smaller man had neither the will nor the desire to resist. The Heavy’s expression was as intense, as concentrated as it had been during the chess match. Now, however, it was focused upon the Medic. Everything melted away.   
  
The Medic awoke in the middle of his orgasm, hand wrapped as tightly around his cock as it had been on the phlebotomy pump. The rhythm was the same, hard and steady, in time with the memory of the Heavy’s heartbeat. He heard shouting- “Mehr Blut! Lieber, mehr!” and realized with a shock that it was his own voice. He might have been embarrassed, except that he fell asleep immediately in the stunned aftermath of his release.   
  
By the next morning, he remembered nothing. His sheets were stained, white on white, but even as he changed them, he could not call the dream to mind. All he knew was a sense of calm, completion. He would not recall the details of the dream for some time.


	17. TACTICS

The day broke cold and clear, but the wind had a razor edge. It carried a mist of snow crystals that seemed to have materialized out of thin air. All the members on both teams were ready and waiting for the starting siren, sharp as the wind itself.   
  
When the siren rang out, Heavy moved off the line quickly, hands firm around Sasha's handles through the tightly-wrapped black cloth that separated skin from frozen metal. On a day like this, anything could happen. Fifteen feet off his left elbow, the Pyro fell into formation beside them, keeping up easily.   
  
The BLU Medic smiled wolfishly as he marched out, the blue glow of his Medigun already washing over his teammates in order to build up an Übercharge. He was eager to deploy it at the earliest opportunity, feel the invincibility wash over him, the crackling corona uniting him with the Heavy. He checked himself- if it was most tactically advantageous, he would charge some other teammate. The Heavy was the perfect killing machine when charged, though...   
  
Cold wind scraped their faces, and the launch of a Soldier's rocket came distinctly across the battlefield from off to the right. The others were engaging, but the BLUs had a plan... Swiftly, and as silent as boots on snow could fall, they circled around the ruined buildings to take the REDs by surprise. The last corner lay dead ahead, and the Pyro was already chuckling to itself between breaths in anticipation...   
  
When the Heavy was fully healed and buffed to his maximum capacity, the Medic redirected his Medigun toward the Pyro, providing additional stamina, and still building toward the Übercharge. His mouth tasted metallic, as it always did in the moments before the enemy was engaged, and he longed for the upcoming carnage. He couldn't stand the suspense, and wanted to see the Heavy in action. He could hear the sounds of battle getting closer again, ahead of them.   
  
Pyro flashed them a rubber-coated thumbs-up, and darted between buildings to preserve his own element of surprise. With a clear line of sight at last, Heavy spun up his minigun, and fired. Death cut through the battlefield sideways, hard, steady and accurate. For this one opening burst, Heavy wanted to lay down as much damage as was humanly possible. They would find him soon, but with the Doktor behind him, being able to aim like this was well worth the risk. And they went down like cut grass, an Engineer first, then a wounded-but-not-dead Soldier and then sweet in the center he found the RED Heavy, already beset by BLU team's scout.   
  
The Medic began to laugh as he saw the RED team's pathetic excuse for a Heavy swing into view. His Heavy would turn that ox into a red mist. The other team knew they were there, now; were trying to disengage from the other BLUs to have some hope of stopping the unstoppable. The Übercharge was so nearly ready as the Medic continued to heal his Russian teammate, and his finger twitched over the button that would deploy it. There was a flash of light, a tiny glint of reflected sun, in the corner of his vision.   
  
Clear over the din of battle there was a sharp crack, unlike the thundering whine of Sasha's closely-packed bullets, and Heavy felt something rip through the air just below his left ear, horrifyingly close. Was the Doktor-?   
  
His answer washed over him a fraction of a second later, a glowing blue corona of invulnerability, tangible proof that together, they could take on ANYTHING. Heavy began to laugh, and it wasn't just the Übercharge flowing through his veins, flowing between them, it was MORE- THEY LIVED -THEY BOTH LIVED, and that was WONDERFUL! -And, Heavy thought as he slung the empty minigun back to leave his fists free, their enemies soon would know it.   
  
Flat on his stomach, the Medic held onto the handle of the Medigun for dear life and tried to blink the stinging snow out of his eyes. He had mashed blindly at the Übercharge button, hoping that it was ready, hoping that the flash of light had meant that a Sniper was aiming for him, not the Heavy. He had his confirmation when the blue corona flowed over him. He dragged himself to his feet, laughing madly and hoping to see what destruction his Heavy had wrought.   
  
With the Medic on his feet again they ran, out of the loose drifts and onto the trampled snow, avoiding the shallow crater blasted clean by a Soldier's rocket, together down onto the battlefield. The RED Heavy was out of ammunition too, but he swung his minigun wide, trying to paw them apart by the sheer weight of concentrated metal.   
  
The BLU Heavy was having none of it. He dodged and shouldered the RED Heavy's elbow upwards, driving his right fist into the left side of other man's ribcage with a roar. He felt a satisfying crunch and the oddly enveloping feeling of the sides of the hole around his fist, stopped from sinking further by only the tension of the other man's flak vest. The RED heavy crumpled. The Übercharge would be over in a moment though, then that Sniper... Heavy ignored the wounded soldier and Demoman, making for the troublesome sentry against the wall, where the angle was wrong for the Sniper above. Perhaps he could find ammunition near it's base...   
  
The Medic ran after his Heavy, panting with exhilaration, not exertion. He loved to watch the big man fight, hand-to-hand against the RED Heavy. He was powerful but graceful, putting the other man down with a magnificent economy of motion, every muscle and tendon on display. The Medic had to work to keep his mind on the battle as they charged toward the undamaged sentry. The Übercharge was going to wear off in an instant.   
  
Attacking a sentry empty-handed was not something Heavy liked to do, but with the Doktor healing him it could be done. However... yes, THERE, near the RED dispenser was a box of minigun ammo. Five steps away from the sentry. They would have to be fast, but it was possible. The sting of the first bullets cut through, a graze to his calf, and a clean shot through his upper right arm. "DISTRACTION!" Heavy yelled over the firing sentry, and closed the distance, punching twice, then darting past to pick up the ammunition.   
  
The Medic gritted his teeth and threw himself at the sentry. He swung the arm of the Medigun aside to free his hand for the bonesaw. He hacked fairly ineffectually at the sentry's metal housing, but his proximity did trip the device's targeting mechanism to focus on him, rather than the Heavy. He ducked and wove, trying to stay out of the thing's line of fire. Despite his efforts, he felt the bullets rip through him.   
  
Heavy was not built to run, but when he reached the the ammo box his hands knew the motions of re-loading almost faster than his mind could follow them. He turned, spinning up, and blasted the sentry's turret section clear off it's base.   
  
A muffled THONK sounded off to the right, and a moment later Heavy was knocked onto his knees by the concussion of a rocket hitting the wall behind them. He inhaled, stinging airborne snow and the sharp chemical-pyrotechnic tang of the rocket. Then he spotted the RED Soldier and Demoman charging them and surged to his feet, minigun spinning up again, snow vibrating loose from the fittings and falling off his own clothing in a swirling cloud as the bullets began to fly...   
  
Ripped open, his blood staining the snow red, the Medic clutched at the handle of the Medigun. If he could start healing the Heavy again, the device's backwash would begin to stop his own bleeding. He looked up, dazzled by the bright sunlight before the great darkness of the Heavy's shadow fell upon him. The huge man blocked out the sun, filled the Medic's entire sky.   
  
The Heavy was roaring, firing at the tattered remnant of the RED team as the Medic hoisted himself to his knees and engaged the Medigun's healing rays again. There were dying screams from across the field, and there were still holes in his body, sentry bullets in his flesh, but as long as the Heavy was here, towering over him, there had never been a better day.   
  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------   
“Your move, Doktor.”   
  
“Danke schön.” The Medic stared at the Heavy across the chessboard, fighting to keep his face immobile. He knew that if he looked at the pieces, his eyes would track out the moves he intended, giving him away. A lifetime of hiding his nature had at least given him this skill. He pinched the inside of his cheek between his molars, and moved his bishop a mere two spaces.   
  
Which was fine, the bishop wasn't threatening his king directly, he'd just... Heavy paused. The bishop wasn't a threat on it's own, and neither was the knight he'd been keeping busy at the other end of the board, but their fields of fire had just overlapped in a way that made Heavy pause, then sit back and re-assess the entire board. The further back from the board you were, the shallower the angle, and the harder it was for his opponent to guess exactly which pieces he was considering. ...Heavy had learned that trick years ago.   
Yes. There WAS a problem, because with the bishop and knight now clearly working in concert, his king was being driven in yet a third direction, towards one of the Doktor's rooks that had stood untouched for more than twenty moves now. It was a beautiful, backhanded trap, and as he glanced up into the Doktor's face, he was reminded of the way the man looked after swiftly turning and driving his bonesaw handle-deep into the chest of a silently-approaching spy.   
  
The Medic had been watching the Heavy's face, saw his eyes light on the rook. Of course the big man had been bound to spot the trap eventually. He was not stupid. But the king, so powerful, so slow, would find it hard to escape. The Medic inclined his head toward his opponent, light flashing off his spectacles.   
  
"This is good move," Heavy acknowledged with a slight, quietly amused nod. He leaned a forearm on the table again, considering. Three logical moves were left open to him. One used a knight to block, one put his king a space closer to the lurking rook, a delaying tactic at best, and his last option was not to move at all. Heavy scanned the other side of the board, looking for a way to put the Doktor back on his guard. There wasn't one... not in less than the two moves it would take the Doktor to put -him- in check, anyway. Heavy slid his knight out from behind it's pawn, blocking the bishop.   
  
Medic moved his own knight down to take the Heavy's, swift and confident. The King was still pinned between the bishop and the rook, and one of the Medic's few remaining pawns had crept up almost to the Heavy's end of the board. His heart was hammering in his chest, just from this peaceful game.   
  
Heavy slaughtered the offending knight with his king, moving the crucial piece down the board, further out of range of the rook, and- His fingers had only just left the king's cross when he spotted the pawn, out of line with the action but exactly one important square away from a promotion that would spell disaster. Then again, the Doktor hadn't moved it in several moves. There was hope in that direction. If he kept his eyes (and hopefully the Doktor's attention) on the advancing bishop and rook...   
  
Smiling faintly, the Medic advanced the pawn, which was no longer threatened by the Heavy's king. "Return my queen, Herr Heavy, if you please."   
  
Heavy straightened, picking the Doktor's queen out of his lineup of prisoners of war from early in the game. He handed her over base-first, and let the Doktor make the switch himself.   
  
The Medic's fingertips tingled from their brief contact with the Heavy's hand. He set the queen down, and placed the pawn on his own side of the board. As he waited for the Heavy's next move, he caressed the piece with his thumb, over and over.   
  
Heavy found his own eyes following the pawn for a moment longer after the Doktor made the switch. The thumbing gesture was like the twitching of a cat's tail, but more... personal. Unrestrained. Heavy doubted somehow that the Doktor knew what his fingers were doing, and looked quickly back up at the horrendous shooting-gallery the board had become, in case his eyes had rested there long enough to call attention to the motion.   
"Check," he acknowledged, feeling the weight of the deeper-than-usual silence that filled the room.   
Two directions to move now, but no, it was a single corridor with death awaiting his king at both ends whether he moved or not, and the wall of pawns that formed this enclosure staring dumbly in the wrong direction to be of any use.   
Heavy reached out, put a forefinger on his king, and tipped the piece over with barely a clack. And then he smiled. There was a teasing shade of frustration to the grin, but that was far outshone by the knowledge that he'd had no part in this victory. He had perhaps toyed with the Medic too much towards the middle of the game, but that had been his mistake, not a ruse to let the Doktor win. He'd -never- let the man win actually, keeping his fingers crossed that as the tactically-minded Medic's skill increased, sooner or later... And his Doktor had not disappointed him.   
  
Though the Heavy had surrendered, the Medic could not resist making the final move, claiming his prize. He slid his white bishop over to the fallen king, pressing them chose to share a square. His composure cracked; he was forced to smile as he stood to shake the Heavy's hand.   
  
From anyone else, Heavy would have thought that crowding of pieces after the fact was déclassé, but from the Doktor it only served to remind him of that eager hunting look of a minute before.   
They were really playing two games here, Heavy had known that from the beginning. When the action on the board intensified, the Doktor would look different, intent, open... not innocent in the manner of a fumbling child, but rather more like the way that a tiger wouldn't care if a man bathing unwarily in a river was naked.   
Heavy liked seeing his Doktor this way, even if the unspoken rules of the game they were both playing didn't allow him to call attention to it. Tonight the Doktor had stopped watching himself, and let the beast in his mind have its hunt. Carefully, oh so carefully caged on the red and black board... but it had been a thing to see.   
"Vell played," Heavy pressed the Doktor's hand in return, then held up one finger, and reached down into the ammunition crate beside his feet.   
  
The Medic waited, though hardly patiently. He had won, the game was over, but his bloodlust was not satisfied. He found himself wishing that there was a battle scheduled right away- he longed to run onto the field, bonesaw and Blutsauger, his Heavy at his side.   
  
The time of night was wildly wrong for battle. What Heavy produced from the crate instead, was a box of cookies. The package was labelled in Polish, and the cookies themselves were stamped with a complex, stylized design dominated by a shape that might have been either an airplane propeller, windmill, or possibly the flag of Japan.   
"I have kept dis- -dease," he partially corrected himself, opening one end of the package, "-since ve begin to play." Smiling, Heavy slid the board aside carefully enough not to upset and pieces, then replaced it with the package of cookies, and unscrewed the top of his dented thermos to pour more tea.   
  
Though the Medic hardly felt like sitting still to eat biscuits, he was touched.   
"For me?" He looked down at the treats. "Against the day I won a match?" He laughed slightly. "I am flattered, though they could have gone quite stale before ever I conquered you." He picked up a cookie and took a delicate nibble. "... Delicious."   
  
"I believed you vould do dis... And I am right, da?" Heavy ate one of the cookies the way most people would approach a potato chip, then selected another to eat more slowly.   
  
The bloodlust was dissolving like a morsel of the buttery cookie on his tongue. Heavy had believed that he would win, someday. His heart felt light, as if it might lift him like a zeppelin. "You are very kind."   
  
The Doktor was obviously pleased, actually -flushed- in his victory, but he seemed restless, too... The cookies obviously weren't having as good a reception as the Dahloks bar had, and Heavy hadn't meant to make his friend feel trapped here to finish them...   
The armory -was- feeling somewhat close and stuffy after the long, tense buildup to the Medic's brilliant upset. Heavy was loathe to end their evening just yet though, and there had to be a way... it -had- been snowing outside earlier, hadn't it?   
  
"Dis has been long battle," he began, feeling his way carefully out onto the ice that always seemed to lie between them, thicker or more brittle by the topic and day, "Perhaps a vok. -Valk." ...the word completely defied pronunciation... "-Ve look outside, yes?"   
  
In truth, the cookies were wonderful, and the Medic was forcing himself to take small bites and chew carefully, lest he make a glutton of himself. The chance to spend more time with Heavy, though, was not to be missed.   
"A fine idea," he said, taking a sip of tea. "If anyone asks, we can tell them that we have chosen to patrol." He finished his cookie and picked up another. Unable to resist, he held it between his teeth after the first bite, and slipped three more into the pocket of his coat for the walk.   
  
...Or perhaps the cookies had gone over better than he'd thought, Heavy noted, watching this fondly. He handed the Doktor the remainder of the package, and took up the thermos of tea himself, tightening the cap again against the cold they would meet with outside.The main outer door was set well back into the concrete block of the building, and it gave their eyes a moment to adjust in shadow between the artificial light of the entryway and the relative brightness of the snow. It was utterly still, cold enough to tingle against cheeks and ears, and to make the very act of breathing feel like drinking ice water. There was a partial moon up high somewhere behind the base, and it cast the shadow of the mountain down the snowfield in front of them for twenty yards or so.   
  
Medic's nostrils flared, inhaling the cold air, enjoying the clean scent of fresh snow. The bright moonlight cast everything in monochrome, highlighting the roofs of the outbuildings, the arch of Heavy's cranium. By this ghostly light, even the Heavy's solid frame looked slightly unreal. Given the whiteness of his cheekbones, the shadows under his brow, the Medic fancied that he could see the skull beneath the big man's skin, a living x-ray. It was like seeing him naked, seeing a part of him that no-one else ever saw. He smiled at his Russian teammate, a more gentle smile than anyone else would credit to him.   
  
Yes, Heavy decided, watching the Medic seem to sharpen as he breathed in the cold, he'd guessed right. No one spoke for a while. The Doktor smiled at him, and the stark outside shadows seemed to have somehow changed the expression. Heavy unscrewed the cap of his thermos, and the tea inside released a pale plume not unlike the consistency of medigun vapor. He drank briefly, then offered the warm thermos to his companion.   
  
Medic took the tea and bit a cookie, sipping so that it would soften the morsel in his mouth. He looked out at the snow, savoring the paradoxical peace of the nighttime battleground, the time alone with his comrade. He felt that he should make conversation, though. Looking across at the Heavy, he cast around for topics.   
"It looks like another world, now, so still."   
  
"Da," Heavy agreed. He didn't look over just then, but he put an arm snugly around the Doktor's shoulders, and looked out over the snowbound battlefield with him. "-Fresh snow brings much change."   
  
Fire and ice clashed inside the Medic's body, quite apart from the sensations of tea and winter air. The Heavy was touching him, close enough for him to feel the warmth of the other man's body, close enough to smell his skin. He froze, barely daring to breathe, unwilling to change anything about the situation. The thermos of tea steamed in one hand, the cookie forgotten between nerveless fingers in the other. Nothing, he thought, nothing could be better than this moment.   
  
Heavy couldn't read the mind of the man beside him, but he did feel it when the Doktor froze- -and a minute or two later relaxed against him, just a little.


	18. SCHERENKOVA LENA, UNIVERSITY OF MINSK

Heavy hadn't written to his sister in a while.   
Lena was currently attending the University of Minsk, and while Heavy's job out here on the front had paid a good bribe or two to keep her in the degree program she wanted without being the daughter of a party-member, neither of them really had the time to do more than write to their parents.   
They were each other's stories, anecdotes in their mother's letters, the ones they made time to read and reply to. 

Lena hadn't liked the part about the bribes. She'd wanted to get into the University on her own merit, and she'd certainly earned the marks while at the institute to deserve it... When it had come down to acceptance though, she'd hit a wall. The program was full, the university clerks had said, perhaps she would like to wait a year to see if a space became available, to enroll in a different program at the same institution... perhaps with another letter of recommendation they could have done something but...   
You are a little girl from Siberia with no party members in your immediate family, the letters had read between the lines, be grateful we are letting you into U of M at all. 

Heavy had stepped in then. He'd long known how this worked from his own underworld dealings, and he'd been prepared for it.   
The academicians found that by some highly irregular bureaucratic oversight they had overlooked Lena's merit somehow, and a seat was available in just the program she had in mind. Would she be staying on campus with a roommate, or would a private room be better for her concentration while studying...? 

Lena had hated the whole process, still DID hate the faint hint of grease in the wheels even after completing her first year there with excellent marks, but Heavy had no regrets. Well- he regretted Lena's innocence to the fact that money DID play a part in a progressively-minded country where the imperialists were not in power, but if his little sister wanted to swim with the sharks in the world of high-level academics, she may as well learn how the game was played. 

What to tell her...?   
Heavy paused, pivoting the pencil around in his large fingers to tap the eraser lightly against the wooden tabletop of his shaving desk.   
He began with the weather, and about how it was so much like home here. He carefully erased something about missing the ice-skaters on the lake in the village this time of year, and wrote instead about the early-waking bear that had been found drinking out of the water-barrel in the sauna, and about the Scout discovering how to mail-order things here. He wanted to write about the battlefield, but he never had before, and he never would. Lena could keep her innocence there... 

It wasn't the horrors of battle he wanted to write about though, but the joy of it. The glory and exhilaration of his boots charging forwards through last night's snow, his heart pounding, and the look of a mad fox on his Doktor's face when the minigun spun down, and the bodies of their enemies lay like spreading red flowers across their field of frozen white.   
No. He would definitely not tell her about that last part, but how... how to put some of how incredible his job out here could be into words?   
Why did he need to, that was the better question... 

No. The battlefield was not for his sister.   
Chess was however, and Heavy filled more than a page with the clever traps that he'd devised for the Doktor, or fallen into himself. Lena would appreciate that, for she too had beaten him before.   
There. The intensity of their battles played out through carved, varnished wood and brightly-colored cardboard, emphasizing the fact that he was not pining for home in a kind of combat-gulag out here. That part was important, Lena worried sometimes... 

Heavy sealed his letter, applied the stamps carefully with his thumb, and took it down the hall to the outgoing mail-drop bag.


	19. BLOODY BATTLE

The snow was falling lightly that day, and the bullets were not. Heavy turned towards a yell behind them, and cut an on-rushing RED Scout nearly in half at the waist, the minigun bullets firing so close that they left a shadow of powder-burn across the sleeve of the Doktor's stiff white coat. They were exposed from nearly all sides as they defended the ruined cabin, it was a horrible place for a control point... but that also meant that between them nearly everything they could see from the low, snow-drifted buildings on one hand to the dark rocks that lay behind was their own private shooting gallery.   
  
For his part, the Medic crouched in one corner of the ruined building, training the medigun on the Heavy, trying to repair the damage he'd taken in capturing the point. He didn't like the position- anything other than a scattergun could rip through the decrepit boards like tissue paper. He just had to hope that anyone who tried that tactic would be aiming for a standing man's center of mass. They might hit the Heavy, but the flak jacket and the medigun could handle that. Even if the RED Sniper got up on the cliff, he'd have to be shooting practically straight down. All they had to do was hold on here until the rest of the team captured their assigned points.   
  
The Scout went down with a sickening stumble and lurch as his spine parted, upraised bat falling from his nerveless fingers to slide back down the hill behind him. Heavy turned again, eyes searching... THERE- a Sniper, but he hadn't been able to re-aim in time. Elsewhere on the battlefield, a series of grenades and explosive flares went off, explosive following incendiary, incendiary replying with hollow WHOOMPHs of fire.   
  
On the cliff above, back under the snow-laden pines, a wounded RED Demoman used his teeth and one hand to rip off the loose end of the gauze bandage he'd just tied around his knee. He spat a string out of his mouth and lay back against the mounded snow for a moment, taking a long, fortifying draft from the thick-walled brown bottle at his side.   
  
"Sniper!" Medic shouted. "Five o'clock, on the rocks!" The Sniper was lower than the Medic had expected, and this verdammter shack offered no decent cover. The rocks were just at the edge of the Minigun's range- damn, damn, damn- and the Übercharge was miles from full.   
  
Heavy didn't ask questions, and he had no time to turn. He simply jerked his head suddenly down and left, shoulders half-following the motion. The round hit him anyway, but it destroyed his right ear and tore a sudden furrow through his flesh from jaw to cheek instead of dropping him like a trophy bear. The Sniper had just managed, to borrow one of the Scout's favorite expressions, to Piss Him Off.   
  
Before the prone man under the trees across from them could re-load, Heavy swung around and let loose on the Sniper's position with an insultingly short burst, plowing up the snow in high white plumes across the edge of the rocky shelf, and blasting the Sniper's butchered remains back against the base of a tree in a wet, anonymous heap.   
  
Medic grinned, broad and savage, as his Heavy took down the impertinent Sniper. He watched with fascination as the bullet wound healed over again. He was usually moving too fast to watch this minor miracle, but he cherished the sight. He could watch his Heavy's skin knit together, over and over, forever.   
  
On the ridge above, the Demoman was regrouping. He checked over his supply of grenades and stickies, tugged down the edge of his black skullcap over his ears, and got to his feet snarling, "Peshpot-weerin sonofaHOORE!" when he tried putting weight onto his rocket-shrapnel-damaged knee.   
  
Heavy -felt- his ear healing, but he didn't dare let that thought become important. The explosions had stopped, which probably meant that the combatants had been separated by the death of one or the other, and a Pyro, Demoman, or Soldier would coming their way soon.Yes, it was the RED Soldier, but- -there was a sudden concentrated explosion, and the RED Soldier's neck gibbed backwards across the coat of the RED Medic following him. Standing straight and unconcerned by a low building half the field away, the BLU Sniper re-loaded, quickly and methodically. YES. Their allies had undisputed command of at least one of the other control points, they had a CHANCE now. Heavy spotted a familiar BLU Engineer running toward them up the hill with a pistol in one hand. "There's just the Command center left now," he called out to them.   
  
-Wrong, the Medic realized. The Engineer should be holding position between the two RED base points, maintaining a sentry to cover the RED spawn and a dispenser to resupply the BLU attackers. He switched the Medigun for his Blutsauger and fired a single syringe at the approaching figure.   
  
The needle struck the approaching man's right shoulder and went in right up to the gleaming glass tube, shorting out the revealed Spy's cloak with a dying flicker. The cigarette fell from the Spy's lips as he looked down the black barrel of the shotgun the Heavy was holding trained on him, one-handed.   
"...Merde," the RED whispered.   
  
The Spy's long nickel-plated revolver fired first, but his aim had been too hasty, and the Heavy's answering blast of buckshot ended the duel decisively. The Spy went down and attempted to turn his dive into rolling down the hill out of range, but the Heavy's next shell finished him. Heavy switched his smoking shotgun out for the more familiar weight of the minigun, and looked over at the Doktor.   
  
"No vasting of ammunition..." he grinned appreciatively. They'd long since worked out what the Heavy was to do when the Doktor went for his Blutsauger like that...   
  
The brief burst of energy as the Blutsauger dart hit the Spy was delicious, bracing as a shot of schnapps. "Why expend our efforts on mere vermin?" the Medic agreed. He loved the Heavy's broad smile, the big man's approval. He didn't dare bask for too long, though, and kept his eye out for the next attack. From the sound of things, the REDs were busy defending their innermost control point.   
  
This too, was a sound Heavy knew well. He had a feeling over the past month or so that they were ever so slightly gaining -ground- here here on the Coldfront station. He couldn't prove it, but it seemed they were putting the REDs on the defensive just a little more- SLOPPY. Very sloppy, and if he hadn't turned back towards the RED base as his train of thought took him there, he'd have missed the twin flashes of red charging up from behind them. One was that determined Scout again, but the other attacker announced itself with a ball of fire.   
  
Heavy took the hit along his left side, and hissed through his teeth as he felt his skin and vest catch fire. The Scout would be on them first, and both were strike-and-run classes... Heavy spun up his minigun as the RED Scout closed, then turned at the last moment to silence the Pyro's muffled and questionably-sane laughter with a short but intense burst. Then the Scout closed, firing a stinging hail from his shotgun and yelling insults, too close now to bring the minigun into play.   
  
The Medic trained the Medigun on his Heavy to extinguish the flames. As they went out, he saw the aggravating RED child charging toward the point. Hoping that the big man could do without healing for a moment, he put up the arm of his medigun and unshipped the Übersaw from its holster. He stepped smoothly around the Heavy, impaling the Scout with the immense needle before wrenching the blade down to gut him.   
  
On the cliff above, the RED Demoman had just finished laying a trail of sticky-bombs above BLU respawn three- a necessarily SHORT trail, because his knee hurt like fury. Those two down there... They hadn't seen him yet, they had to be dealt with. Yes. Their loss of the central point would put SUCH a satisfying hitch in the BLU team's advance... Yesss... The Demoman backed up for a running leap off the edge, but when he got there his mouth was set in a hard line of pain already. "Baws..." he swore, and drained the last of his Scrumpy, throwing the bottle behind him when he was done. A sticky-jump with THIS fecking knee, it would have to be...   
  
The dull explosion of a stickybomb being launched was barely noticeable over the sounds of battle, much less the beep as the charge was detonated, but an explosion coming from the previously-secure BLU side of the war zone was all too noticeable. The Medic looked up to see a crazed Scotsman blocking out the pale winter sun.   
  
And down he came, yelling triumphant abuse in a brogue far too thick for Heavy's Russian-trained ears to peirce. There was no time. He couldn't really be said to have PLANNED what happened next, but the Heavy reacted, swinging the joined barrels of his minigun almost straight upwards and cramming his finger down on the trigger, feet braced. He drew a line, like connecting the dots in a long-ago children's game, but each of those three black dots around the incoming man HAD to be stopped, each one was a bomb.   
  
Heavy's bullets knocked what was now a swiftly falling body off-course, and destroyed one of the three incoming grenades, the one that he would have chosen if he'd had TIME to think, because it was the one that would've impacted closest to the Doktor. And then the Heavy's world exploded.   
  
The shockwave from the two remaining grenades made the Medic bite deep into his tongue. He fell to one side, but kept the trigger of the medigun mashed down, trusting the vitalising technology to find its target. He hoped the Heavy wasn't dead. It threw off their tactics, it made him seem incompetent... it hurt, in some way he could not explain. Tasting blood on his tongue, the Medic struggled to stand, disoriented by the flash and bang.   
  
There was a wrenching in his chest as the medibeam took hold, and the Heavy gasped as consciousness crashed back in over him, a brief shout ripped from his throat. He didn't cry out often, but the feeling of what felt like at least four caved in-ribs on the left side of his chest suddenly reversing out into convexity with an audible grinding crack was one he'd remember. It meant something though. He was ALIVE, and the blast hadn't killed his Doktor either.   
  
THEY were ALIVE.   
  
As the Medic's vision cleared, he saw his Heavy in the centre of a crimson pool. The big man was lying on his side, desperately wounded. His ribcage was open, but knitting itself together under the medibeam even as he watched. The German could still see the tender pink of his Heavy's lungs, the surprising velvety burgundy of his liver. He crept forward, hoping for a glimpse of the Russian's heart. The back of his neck was sweating despite the chilly air, he was salivating. Looking down into the big man's crushed chest cavity, he realized that he had an erection.   
  
Heavy breathed easier as his ribs knit, the shrapnel-puncture in his side closed, and the wide, raw, skin-stripped area from the elbow of his left arm to the top of where his left ear had been sealed into the unnatural smoothness of freshly-daubed oil-paint, and began to grow back detail. The Doktor was standing over him, unnaturally tall from this angle, seeming to hold a twisting rope of blue light in his hands, a lifeline... The Medic's eyes were feverish, intently blue, focused completely.   
  
Things shifted and stilled beneath the Heavy's new-grown skin. Tearing pain and dull aches subsided there, because the Doktor -made- it so. This was power. This was himself, inside-out. The Heavy took a deep breath as he lay there looking up at his friend, then let it out as he finally sat up. They had a job to do.   
  
As the skin sealed over the Heavy's wounds, the Medic felt a surge of fierce, protective jealousy. What he had just seen was his, and his alone. The Heavy's viscera were secret, sacred, should be inviolable. The Medic vowed then that no-one else would ever see what he had just seen. The clamor of the BLU Scout on his approach was muffled by the roaring of blood in the Medic's ears.   
  
"WHOA, whoa, that was like-" the BLU Scout began, arriving on the point beside the Medic with a bounce. He broke off with a surprised jump-back when the Heavy sat up however. "Yuh- -h- how are you not dead?!" he demanded, pointing a finger only slightly downwards at his larger teammate.   
  
"I have good Doktor," Heavy replied with satisfaction. He glanced at the Medic with the same quiet smile still in place, got to his feet, and scooped the Scout back onto the cover of the control point with one hand. "-Stand on point and votch back," Heavy instructed, raising his minigun again, "-dis battle is not fenished..."


	20. Basically, while days on Coldfront are working out nicely, lately, the Medic still has some bad nights.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is all Teratomarty.

The Medic had decided. If the Heavy ever showed the slightest interest, he would let him- the Medic’s hand clenched around the neck of the wine bottle as he poured another glass. He couldn’t name, even in the privacy of his own mind, what he would let the big Russian do to him. For years, he had avoided drinking in the company of comrades, co-workers or teammates, for fear of what he might accidentally reveal.   
  
Occasionally, he dared to hope that -it- might be pleasurable. The Heavy admitted to having done it before, and his huge fingers were delicate on his gun, on the chessmen. However, even as he tried to drink in courage with the wine, the Medic was afraid. His stomach churned at the thought of being used like that, like a woman. He reflected on how durable women must be, designed to withstand treatment that could wound a man, could kill him.   
  
Lilli, his long-ago lover, had enjoyed it, especially when he followed her orders, used his fingers first. Already warm with the wine, the Medic’s body heated further as he thought about the Russian’s hands. However, the Medic knew that he wasn’t built like a woman, his organs lacked the females’ resilient elasticity. Anyone who wanted to bed the Heavy would need that ability, badly.   
  
Draining his glass, the Medic wondered how one could even offer to engage in such an act. The Heavy wasn’t inclined to violent assault, as the Medic had initially feared. In retrospect, that fear had been freighted with hope. If the Heavy would not attack, the Medic might have to offer- but how?   
  
Another glass of wine. The Medic understood that alcohol often helped in this situation. Lilli had been flirtatiously tipsy when she had first invited herself back to his room. Again he felt a surge of nausea at the ridiculous image of himself attempting to play the coquette. Would he be able to drink enough to make a pass without drinking so much as to pass out? He was relatively certain that being slobbering drunk wouldn’t help to win the Heavy’s affections, anyway. It certainly didn’t render the Demoman any more attractive when he passed out in the hallway and belched in his sleep.   
  
No, alcohol would not serve, the Medic decided even as he topped up his glass. Unconsciousness, though... perhaps there was something useful in that. Sedation, anesthesia, a clean, painless sleep while he let the Heavy- let him do- the Medic took a large gulp of wine. He could write his offer out on a note- fuck me, please- then let himself into the big man’s room and pin it to his shirt. An injection of morphine as he waited for the Russian to return would ensure that he would wake up, or respawn, with no memory of whatever pain ensued.   
  
Or, no- conscious sedation. Curare would keep him immobile, keep the pain at a distance, but still allow him to observe the entire procedure. Dazed by the wine, he lay back on his bed and imagined what the Heavy might do. Obviously, the first step would be to nudge the Medic’s shoulder, to see if he was truly unconscious. He put his own hand gently on his shoulder, imagining it as the Russian’s. A nudge, then possibly a gentle slap across the face. His own touch shocked him, almost enough to make him cry out- he didn’t, he couldn’t- he was drugged, his Heavy was touching him.   
  
He imagined the Russian giving in to curiosity, to desperation. As he had pointed out, they were far from the comforts of women. Any unresisting warm body might suffice. His hands followed his fantasy of the Heavy’s touch, undoing his tie, unbuttoning his shirt and stripping it away. Yes. The big Russian might inspect him, like a new gun, like livestock, prodding his muscles, stroking the straightness of his limbs. The Medic was no weakling, but he was sure that the Heavy’s hands could wrap around his upper arm completely.   
  
Sliding out of his trousers, the Medic imagined that the Heavy would have no trouble lifting him. He didn’t weigh as much as the minigun, even if he would be limp, dead weight in the Russian’s grip. He pictured the big man pushing his thighs apart, possibly brushing his penis with the back of one large hand. Would the Medic be able to get an erection under sedation? He hoped not, but supposed it wouldn’t matter, not if the Heavy was going to fuck him.   
  
In reality, his member was erect and aching, despite the wine. He cupped it loosely in his left hand while he pressed the fingers of his right into his mouth and sucked on them. Slick fingers were a courtesy that Lilli had demanded, and they did make later penetration easier. Perhaps the Heavy would know the same technique.   
  
Letting his head roll back, fantasizing about sedation, the Medic pressed a finger against his anus. It didn’t hurt as badly as the first time he had tried, but it ached. He breathed deeply- an unconscious man would not seize up against this intrusion- and let his dream of Heavy push further in.   
  
Just imagining that the big man was fucking him made him moan- loud and inchoate; it sometimes happened with patients under ether. Sprawled bonelessly on his bed, he pumped his finger in and out. He was far enough gone in his fantasy that he could stroke his cock without shame, imagining the Heavy’s belly pressed against it, moving rhythmically as the big man fucked him.   
  
The Medic cried out, a strangled sound like a patient fighting anesthetic, and braced his heels against the edges of the mattress. In his mind, the Heavy was using him. There would be no reason for him to practice restraint, not with an unconscious body for a partner; the big man could be rough and bestial.   
  
Moaning again, the Medic arched his body from heels to shoulderblades. The Heavy was coming inside of him, slamming into him, lifting him up by the hips to fuck him more deeply. Medic’s orgasm erupted, semen splattering his chest, his hand, the Heavy’s belly, the big man’s face.   
  
Exhausted, intoxicated, the Medic fell back to his mattress. His eyes rolled back in his head and his hands slipped away from his body to lie limply on his sheets. The wine was forgotten, his shame was forgotten, everything but bliss was forgotten as the Medic’s feigned sedation merged with real sleep.


End file.
